


Kingsman: The Fall of Avalon

by yuchi



Category: SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kingsman Fusion, M/M, Mommy Issues, Suits, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuchi/pseuds/yuchi
Summary: After believing his whole life that he's nothing special, Lucas Wong discovers that he is the only living heir of a Kingsman hero. Guided by his mentor, Galahad, Lucas dives headfirst into a secret world of spies, suits, and deceit. There he learns more of the secrets his mother kept—along with a years-old grudge and a thirst for revenge that has him at the centre of it all.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 16
Kudos: 55
Collections: In Another Life





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> written for prompt LM34.
> 
> to the prompter: to say that i went fucking buckwild with this prompt is the understatement of the year. i just hope you'll like what i've cobbled together.
> 
> thank you to c for helping with the worldbuilding. spending more than an hour on call laughing about how smart we are was so worth it.
> 
> thank you to l and k for betaing! (debatable, but thank you!) i'm never gonna give you up or let you down. 
> 
> a few notes:  
> \- there are graphic depictions of violence in this fic, so if you know anything about the films, think around those lines  
> \- the plot is held together by a few paper clips so please don't expect anything,,, i wanted to write sexy suit-clad spies and i got them  
> \- non-nct characters are aged up, but not considerably 
> 
> codename key:  
> Mark = Galahad  
> Baekhyun = Arthur  
> Ten = Merlin  
> Jongin = Percival  
> Taemin = Gawain
> 
> disclaimer: the Kingsman universe is not mine. i apologize in advance for the britishisms -- i tried my best, heh.

#  **SEPTEMBER 2008. THE PITCAIRN ISLANDS.**

At the top of a building that rises over an island thought to be uninhabited, a regal woman dressed in black circles an agent bound to a chair. Both women possess a singular kind of beauty, but that which is vastly different from the other. The woman in black has a severe kind of ethereality, ice carved into the sharp angles of her face and her steely eyes. The agent is a homelier kind of beautiful, with a straight nose and chocolate brown eyes that usually twinkle with kindness, but are now glowing with defiance.

“We have you cornered,” the woman jeers, looking to the two men stationed at the door, dressed in red and white. “Now—talk. Who you are and who you work for. If not…” she trails off, tilting her head towards one of the men. “I’ve just gifted my associate here a wonderful knife. A beautiful thing.” She leans closer, red lips almost brushing against the agent’s ear. “I wonder how that knife would look, carving out your pretty little face…” she whispers, trailing a manicured finger against the agent’s high cheekbone.

Despite the threat, the agent simply smiles, tilts her head so both women are face-to-face. “I wonder how _your_ face would look,” she whispers in the same tone, “When I detonate the bombs I’ve planted in this facility.”

The woman’s eyes widen in panic. “Lies,” she hisses, but she gestures for one of the men to leave, presumably to check on said bombs. “You couldn’t have.”

“Your men only found me just now,” the agent replies coolly. “Who knows where I’ve been? How long the timer has been going?”

The woman’s nostrils flare out in anger. Lunging forward, she seizes the agent by the collar. “If you set off those bombs, you’ll go down with us. We’ll all go down.”

“Anything it takes to stop you,” the agent hisses. “If you start running now, you might be able to make it out alive.”

The woman hesitates for a split second before barking an order to the remaining man in the room. He departs, leaving only the two women to stare venomously at each other. 

"If you will die here, then so be it," the woman sneers. "I hope this was worth your pathetic life." 

The agent laughs, a humourless sound. "Between the two of us, the one leaving the other to die is more pathetic." 

Unmoved, the woman departs with a swish of her midnight black dress. "I only regret that I won't be able to see it," are her parting words, and with that, she closes the door. 

The agent, finally alone, lets her mask of bravado fall; she leans wearily against the back of her chair, closing her eyes. 

“Arthur?” she calls, seemingly into thin air. “Remember this: heavy is the hand with the hilt.”

No one answers, but the agent smiles nonetheless. “Thank you. For everything.”

When the bombs detonate, there's nothing left of her except ash. 

#  **JUNE 2020. LONDON, ENGLAND.**

Lucas is 87% sure he's being watched.

It starts like this: he’s coming home from his second job interview of the day—some shoddy start-up that needed a software engineer, or something? He can’t even remember—when he feels a pair of eyes watching him. Trafalgar is a crowded place, so how he was able to pinpoint the feeling, he doesn't know; but he freezes up all the same, eyes darting around for suspicious activity to no avail. 

Lack of evidence or no, Lucas was never one to doubt his gut, so he calms himself so as not to give anything away, walking as though nothing happened. Weaving through the crowds in Trafalgar without looking back is no easy task, his heart thumping like mad all the while, but he manages to skid onto an alleyway that leads to God knows where. No fucking way he's leading whoever is following him to his apartment.

The streets are long and narrow, almost labyrinthine—enough for his shadows to get thrown off. But the further he walks, the clearer he can hear footsteps behind him: two pairs, one heavier than the other.

It doesn't sound like the two people are much bigger than him—easily manageable if they _do_ try to mug him, but he gets the feeling that whoever is following him all the way from Trafalgar is more than just your run of the mill robber. Nevertheless, they seem set on following him, matching his every turn even as he walks faster and faster.

It’s a dead end. About five men who all look varying degrees of threatening are gathered in front of a dumpster, brandishing baseball bats and crowbars. Lucas thinks to what's in his pocket: five p, a gum wrapper, and some lint. Definitely _not_ manageable.

“Ah, fuck,” he swears under his breath. Lucas skids to a stop, holding up two hands in surrender. He hazards a glance behind him—the two men that were following him are closing in, pulling out weapons of their own.

“Whoa there, fellas,” he tries, “Can’t we just talk this out? I don’t want this to get messy.”

The most menacing one of them all steps forward, a good half-foot taller than Lucas. “Well, I do.” The glint of a knife catches Lucas’s eye, and he sends a quick prayer to God and whoever else is listening. _Please, God, this isn’t fair. I_ just _graduated, I don’t want to die in a fucking back alley—_

His supplication is interrupted by a single stately cough. All of them turn their heads to look at the offending individual, standing round the corner of the alley: a man about Lucas’s age, dressed in a crisp pinstripe suit. He leans on an umbrella like it's a cane, regarding them with interest. Lucas can’t quite make out any other features apart from a pair of thick-rimmed glasses perched on a straight nose.

“Good day, gentlemen,” the man in the suit greets, as though he weren’t barging in on a potential battery case. His voice is almost infuriatingly calm, accent posh and classy like the trust-fund snobs that Lucas had to deal with in university. “Now, I’m sure our friend here is right. There’s no need for violence; if we all just have a civilised conversation like the good lads I’m sure we all are…”

Lucas winces. The knife in his face certainly indicates that they’re past the point of diplomacy, but he can’t say he blames the man for trying.

The thugs step forward, crowding the man in the suit with their numbers and height. “Why don’t you run along, pretty boy,” the largest one jeers. “And we’ll let our fists do the talking.”

“Well,” the man sighs. “That simply cannot do.”

Lucas almost screws his eyes shut for fear of what's about to come, but before he can, the man in the suit rears back and punches the thug square on the nose.

Eyes widening, Lucas takes it all in as the man wipes the floor with the others—one of them charges towards him, knife in hand, but he dodges quickly and the knife embeds itself into one of his friends' shoulder, both screaming in shock. With one swift kick, their heads are knocked together and they collapse onto the pavement. Another tries to swing at the suited man with a wrench, but he intercepts the weapon with a hand and the thug seizes up, electrocuted. 

"Oh, fuck," Lucas mutters to himself. The man in the suit looks to be handling himself just fine, but he can't just have a kip in the middle of a fight, can he?

_Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..._

Lucas takes a deep breath and joins the fray, taking on the thug that's charging towards the suited man's back. With one well-timed block, the knife is knocked out of the thug's hands; Lucas catches him in a choke-hold, and the man slumps to the floor, asphyxiated. There's the sound of footsteps behind him, and he swivels around just in time to throw the approaching thug over his shoulder and slam him down onto the pavement, a loud _crack!_ echoing in the empty alleyway.

Lucas winces. That must've been unpleasant. There's no time to feel sorry, though, because the one with a broken nose is drawing a pistol from his belt. “Cover!” Lucas yells, ducking behind a rubbish bin.

The suited man doesn't even flinch; he opens his umbrella, and Lucas watches in amazement as the bullets ricochet off the fabric. Now rightfully afraid, the thug backs up on his hands and feet, watching as the suited man advances towards him. 

He receives a spectacular sounding backhand for his trouble, and he falls, unconscious, onto the pavement.

Lucas couldn’t pick his jaw up off the floor even if he tried. Slowly, he ventures out from behind the rubbish bin, staring at the suited man in awe. “What the _fuck!_ ”

The other man finally turns to him, giving him a once-over that makes him shiver. "Are you hurt?" 

Lucas is on the verge of dry-heaving with how much he’s gulping for breath, but the man’s perfectly styled coif barely has a hair out of place. To Lucas’s horror, he's more than a little turned on.

“Who _are_ you?” Lucas demands, half-amazement and half-fear.

Inquisitive eyes regard him behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. The man straightens, brushing off imaginary dirt from his suit.

“My name is Mark Lee, and I’m your designated protector.”

♕

“I don’t really understand. So you’re like… my bodyguard?” Lucas asks. Mark affixes him with what can only be described as a courteous glare.

They’ve made their way back to Trafalgar, neither of them too enthusiastic about staying at the scene of a crime. Mark’s made the suggestion of blending in with the crowd should more of those men come for them. Lucas is sure that the bespoke suit Mark is wearing isn’t doing them any favours, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“Technically, you're not wrong,” Mark replies. “But I can’t quite explain without sounding off my rockers. Would you like to take this somewhere else?”

“Whoa, bruv.” Lucas holds up a hand. “Are you trying it on with me?”

Mark stares at him. “I meant somewhere we could talk.”

“Oh, right.” Lucas coughs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Is the McDonalds on Whitehall okay? I could really use a Big Mac right now.”

Mark nods in an obliging manner. “If you're comfortable with that.”

Definitely, his wallet agrees.

It’s an odd afternoon hour between lunch and tea so there’s not many people in the restaurant. Even so, they attract stares from the moment they step in to when they settle into a booth—Mark especially, ranging from curious to admiring. Lucas himself is definitely on the latter part of the spectrum. 

What? He knows a handsome face when he sees it.

Mark has somehow acquired a fork and knife, taking apart his burger with surgical precision. “I suppose you have questions,” he begins, delicately scraping off the ketchup from his patty.

“Where are you from? Who do you work for? Where did you learn to fight like that?” Lucas interrogates without preamble. And, finally: “Why guard _me?_ ”

Mark sets down his utensils, having thoroughly divested his patty of ketchup. “All very good questions. Let’s begin with your mother.”

“My mother?” Lucas echoes. “What do _you_ have to do with my mum? She died years ago.”

“It has everything to do with your mum. You see, Lucas—you’re the son of an agent.”

“Like… a real estate agent?” Lucas completes hesitantly. 

Mark stares at him, unimpressed. "Do I look like a real estate agent to you?" 

Lucas leans back into the upholstery of the booth, taking in a sharp breath. “Was that it? Did my mum work for MI6?”

Mark shakes his head, piecing his burger back together. “It’s much more complicated than that,” he says tranquilly, slicing into his meal like it’s a steak. “We’re part of an organization that operates under the highest discretion—I can't tell you all the details, but I am also an agent, like your mother was.”

“So like a spy?”

“Of sorts,” Mark smiles wryly. “You were told that your mother died in a fire, but that’s not the truth. She perished during an operation involving a drug cartel, managing to disrupt their operations as she did so. To our knowledge, she was survived by no one." Mark gestures to him with his fork. "Well, until now.”

“But I saw the body,” Lucas protests. 

“And it was unrecognizable, wasn't it? A… replacement was made,” Mark answers delicately. 

Lucas shakes his head in disbelief. “How do I know you're not just taking the piss?”

“I would be disappointed if you believed me easily,” Mark says lightly. “Here, this might look familiar.” Mark procures a photograph from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and slides it over the table. 

Sceptically, Lucas picks it up; it looks like a class picture, one you would take for the yearbook, except that this picture was taken in front of a mansion and has only about fifteen people in it. In the very middle of the first row is his mother—younger, with long hair tied into a neat ponytail nothing like the stern knot Lucas remembers from his childhood, but his mother all the same. 

“It really _is_ mum,” Lucas says in awe. 

“You have her nose,” Mark smiles kindly. He folds the picture up, depositing it back into his pocket. “Unfortunately, I'll have to dispose of this picture. The surviving people in this photo probably wouldn't take well to having their likenesses anywhere other than our database.”

Mark says all of this flippantly, as though Lucas should be used to people being this secretive with their identities. As though this were his daily life. “So mum was a spy,” Lucas repeats. “Of sorts.”

“Yes. Seeing as you're the only living heir of someone who is somewhat of a legacy to our organization, it’s in your best interest to be protected." Mark pats at his mouth with a napkin. He's finished his burger in the meantime, while Lucas has yet to touch his. "I am the agent assigned to that mission.”

“But why just show up now?”

Mark smiles thinly, looking a little pained by the question. “I’ve only been able to watch over you recently because she kept you well-hidden from us—not at your best interest, it turns out.”

“I can see that,” Lucas says amicably.

“If we knew about your existence, we would have taken you in immediately; but as it is, my superiors have settled for having one of us watch over you. That's where I come in. Oh, and please don’t say a word about all this,” Mark requests, large eyes almost pleading with him. It’s a far cry from the composed man delicately slicing into his burger a few minutes ago. “I’m not supposed to tell you about my mission—but the more you know, the more cautious you will be. Perhaps we can even help each other in this regard.”

“I’m a moving target, is what you’re saying,” Lucas concludes. “But who would even want me dead? Or alive, whichever.”

“Your mother made plenty of enemies while she was working with us,” Mark explains. “Some of those enemies may be looking to retaliate in any way that they can. But she also made the world a better place.” He smiles, evidently believing in every word he's saying. “You should be proud of her.”

Lucas nods, giving Mark a small smile of his own. “I am.”

“Now—” Mark folds his hands over the table. “I have questions for you.”

Lucas points dumbly at his chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Mark smiles widely, all boyish charm that makes Lucas’s heart skip a beat. “Where did _you_ learn to fight like that?”

“I've been taking self-defence classes since I was—this high,” Lucas gestures to the height of the table. “It was in my mum's will and testament, too. Had provisions for it and everything.”

“Hm. Arthur always said she had excellent foresight.”

“Arthur?”

“Never mind.” Mark waves a hand, although his cheeks are reddening. “That explains that, then. And it was your mother who took care of your living arrangements, as well?”

“Yes, actually. How much research did you do on me?”

The agent smirks. “It's what _spies_ do.”

“Wicked.”

Mark wraps his lips around the straw in his Coke, taking a careful sip. Lucas develops an urgent interest in the grain of the tabletop. “So you've lived alone? Ever since?”

“Foster homes ‘til I turned eighteen. Then the trust fund came in instalments, the first of which was just enough for my lovely apartment. But yeah, alone, basically.” Lucas swallows at the memory of having to endure living in dusty attics and dank basements, never really getting to call any of the children his age his friends because he would be shoved onto another family within the year, anyway, when the current one would tire of him. 

Mark's eyes soften in sympathy. “That must have been difficult.”

He shrugs. “I've managed.”

“More than managed, I would say," Mark declares. "You’re capable in a fight, and that’s not all; top of your class at Imperial College, Magna Cum Laude. Got there on scholarship as well. Several distinctions in the field of software engineering despite limited guidance and resources.”

“Well, when you put it like _that…_ ” Lucas demurres. 

"You've done exceptionally well, even when the circumstances didn't permit it." Mark purses his lips in thought, a knowing glint in his eye. “Come to think of it, a position has opened up where I work. You sound like just the person we’re looking for.”

“What—me? A _spy?_ ” Lucas whispers, leaning forward. “You’re mental.”

“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid." Mark smiles encouragingly. "You would fit in just fine—you've got fighting down pat, and you can adapt to our technology with no trouble. Not to mention you're a legacy. We would be happy to have you.”

He’s stunned, for the lack of a better word. Here comes this handsome stranger, swooping down to save him and answer questions he’s had about his mother since he was old enough to have questions; it’s almost too good to be true. The temptation is definitely there—Mark doesn’t look like the untrustworthy sort, and should he accept the proposal, he could learn more about his mother.

But his mother also drilled it into his head that he shouldn’t make a decision without sleeping on it first. And so when Mark asks, “What do you say?” he answers with, “No. _No,_ I can’t possibly.”

If Mark is disappointed, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he hikes an eyebrow up, peering at him from behind his glasses. “Are you sure? Isn’t that every little boy’s dream—secret spy?”

Lucas smiles ruefully. “I just wanted to survive when I was a kid.”

Mark’s eyes soften with sympathy. “I understand. Perhaps I should give you time to think over it, maybe after a good night's sleep? Should you change your mind—or even if you don't—you can always contact me. I'm at your disposal." Mark holds out what looks like a blank slip of paper; Lucas tilts it so it catches the light, and an address emblazoned in gold glints into sight. “It was wonderful finally meeting you, Lucas.”

“You too,” Lucas answers dazedly, stuffing the calling card into his front pocket. “Thank you for saving my ass earlier, Mark.”

Mark shakes his head, smiling as he picks his umbrella up. “It’s the least I could do.”

Lucas tries not to stare as Mark picks himself up and leaves, but nothing prevents his eyes from lingering on Mark's retreating back. He feels at his breast pocket for the card, just to assure himself that everything that happened was real; sure enough, the card is still there, and he hasn’t woken up from a very strange dream.

Sighing, he turns to his fries and douses them in ketchup.

♕

His apartment is only three stations away from Trafalgar, but the tube ride home seems like the longest he's ever had. His mind hasn't stopped swimming since he stepped out of the McDonald's—who could possibly have it out for him? Who is Mark working for? Would their organization, the one his mum was part of, really want him there? For every question he conjures, another one pops up, a web of mysteries he doesn't have nearly enough threads in his grasp for him to untangle. 

The voice on the intercom snaps him out of his daze, announcing his arrival at the station; sighing, he gathers his satchel and piles out of the train car. The streets leading to his apartment building are already dimly lit by street lamps, and he urges his feet to go faster. The sooner he can sink into his bathtub, the better. 

He doesn't go farther than the entrance steps to his building, however, because there's a group of men hanging about his apartment. 

“Fuck,” Lucas swears to himself, flattening his back against the wall. He dares another look—it’s the same men he and Mark beat the shit out of, undoubtedly waiting for him to come home and finish off their job.

Slowly, he pulls out the slip of paper from his breast pocket, speed-walking back onto the street and flagging a cab down. “11 Savile Row,” he reads, and the driver nods.

Twilight is falling over London, and the streets are filling up quickly with people scurrying home or grabbing dinner. Lucas keeps as close to the seat as possible without taking an eye off of the rear-view mirror, ever paranoid that he’s being followed. 

11 Savile Row is a tailor shop with a glass front, the sort of store he could only stare at but never step foot into. Impeccable suits on dress forms are on display, lit in yellow and gold. “Kingsman” is plastered across the glass, and Lucas frowns at it; he’s never heard of the shop before, but the word reminds him very distantly of his childhood, men he didn’t know visiting his mother at odd hours and talking in hushed voices.

When he enters the shop, Mark is lounging on the couch in the waiting area, swirling whisky in a glass. Lucas gives himself a moment to take the image in—a beautiful man in a perfect suit lit by a flickering fire, terribly out of reach.

Not for long, he supposes.

“Are you a tailor as well, then?” Lucas ventures, stepping into the space between the couch and the coffee table.

Mark hums. He doesn’t look the least bit surprised at Lucas’s appearance. “It’s a front."

“Explains the suits, then.”

“Yes, we keep the ballistic fibre in the back,” Mark smiles. "Have you changed your mind?”

Lucas shrugs. “Not so much as I want to get away from the wankers surrounding my home.”

Mark nods in understanding, finishing off his whisky. “A wise choice.”

“I’m really not safe, am I?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“And your… organization will keep me safe?” he presses. “If I agree to be a recruit, or whatever it is?”

“I guarantee it.”

“What do I have to lose, right?” Lucas questions bitterly. Even so, he can’t help but marvel at the store—what secrets does this tailor shop hide? Did his mum walk through those doors as he did, wondering what might become of her? Lucas breathes in. “Alright, I’m in.”

Mark grins, giddiness barely containing itself. “Excellent. Follow me.”

The agent leads him into one of the fitting rooms, wallpapered with an intricate green design and polished wood panelling—somehow exactly what he expected a fitting room here to look like. There are frames hung all over the walls: newspaper clippings, portraits, paintings. There’s a row of hooks to his left, and pressed up against one wall is a full-length mirror.

Lucas winces as he finally takes in the two of them in the mirror. It’s almost sad how _shabby_ he looks next to Mark, and it has nothing to do with their clothes. The other man is shorter than him, but in the mirror, it looks like he’s the one that’s standing tall.

“What a striking pair we make,” Mark muses, and through his reflection, Lucas can see his ears flush in embarrassment. “Tell me, Lucas. What are you expecting?”

Lucas shrugs, staring at himself. “To be told what the fuck is going on.”

Mark chuckles in response. “Alright, I owe you that much.” He places his palm flat on the mirror, and Lucas frowns—then jumps back as the room starts moving _downward,_ like an elevator.

“Since 1849, Kingsman tailors have clothed the world’s most powerful individuals,” Mark starts. “By 1919, a great number of them had lost their heirs to World War I. This left a lot of uninherited money, as well as powerful men wanting to protect life and preserve peace. 

“The result of that resolution was this organization—an independent, international intelligence agency operating under the highest discretion. The suit is a modern gentleman’s suit of armour, and the Kingsman agents are the new knights.”

Mark turns to him. “I know this isn’t what you were envisioning for your future, but as you said, you’re not safe. You can trust us to provide you with protection, and most importantly, answers. I’m willing to bet you grew up wondering who you really were.”

Lucas’s silence is enough of an answer.

“And, if you should decide that this isn’t for you, then—that’s one profession crossed out of the list, hm?” Mark finishes lightly.

The elevator-room finally ceases its descent. They’ve arrived at what looks exactly like a station at the tube, with a pod of some sort lined with quatrefoil seats waiting for them.

Unable to stop himself from gawking at the station, Lucas follows Mark into the pod, sitting across him. Mark smiles assuredly, and the door closes behind them; the pod shoots off, and Lucas has to grab at his armrests from the sheer speed of it.

When they come to a stop, he’s feeling nauseous for a myriad of reasons, the least of them being the actual ride. The door of the pod opens and Mark steps out, looking expectantly at him.

Lucas follows. The first thing he notices is the giant window that spans the far wall of the room they’re in—and beyond that window, a hangar full of aeroplanes, helicopters, and every conceivable mode of land transportation available to man. He’s immediately drawn there, almost pressing his nose against the glass. Right below, he can spot his dream motorcycle: a red Ducati Diavel.

“That is sick,” he exclaims.

“Isn’t it?” Mark agrees, walking up next to him. “I never get tired of it. Makes me feel like a child with all the toys I could ever wish for.”

“But we’re not here for that, I think.”

“Unfortunately, not yet. Come with me.”

Mark leads him down a hallway, at the end of which is a man holding a clipboard. He’s of shorter stature than Mark, with cat-like eyes behind a pair of glasses identical to Mark’s. “Ah, Galahad,” the man says pleasantly.

“My code name,” Mark offers. “Merlin. I trust that we’re not late?”

“Barely,” Merlin snorts, making a note on his clipboard. He turns to Lucas, gesturing to the door in front of them with his hand. “Go on.”

Mark gives him one last encouraging smile. Lucas gulps, but he pushes the door open.

He walks into a dormitory of some sort, with beds and army-green lockers pressed against the walls on either side. Showers and toilets line the farthest wall, providing little privacy, and in the middle of the room there’s a huddle of about ten people all engaged in conversation—save for one who hangs around the edges, disinterested.

The circle breaks when Lucas enters, and all of them turn their eyes on him, scrutinizing and calculating. He tries to channel some of Mark in him and stands tall, striding over and making eye contact with every single one of them.

“Fall in,” Merlin pipes up behind him, and they all follow.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Merlin,” he continues, in a surprisingly thick Irish brogue. “You are going to embark on what is probably the most dangerous job interview in the world.” Merlin grins, a tad too devilish and sadistic for Lucas’s tastes. “One of you, and _only_ one of you, will become the next Lancelot.”

Merlin walks over to one of the beds, picking up something in a plastic bag. “Can anyone tell me what this is?”

Lucas raises his hand immediately, as does everyone else. Merlin points at him with his clipboard. “You.”

“Bodybag. Sir,” Lucas tacks on. He’s only seen a body bag once, but it’s a time he’ll never forget.

“Correct,” Merlin says, satisfied. “Lucas, isn’t it?” he questions, setting the body bag back down on the sheets.

“Yes, sir,” Lucas answers with no small amount of alarm. The other agents all swivel their heads for a moment, equally shocked, but they recover quickly.

“Good.” Merlin resumes his position in front of them. For such a short person, he’s an imposing presence. “In a moment, you will each collect a body bag. You will write your name on that bag. You will write the details of your next of kin in that bag—an acknowledgement of the risks you’re about to face and your agreement to strict confidentiality. Which, if broken, will result in you—and your next of kin—being _in_ that bag.”

Silence in the room as comprehension dawns. Bully for them—there’s only one name Lucas can write on that body bag, and it’s his.

“Understood?” Merlin questions, and they all nod. “Very good. Fall out.”

They do as they’re told, scattering about the room. One of the recruits, however, approaches Lucas and his chosen bedspread. “Jaehyun,” he introduces with a dimpled smile, extending a hand. He’s handsome, dressed in expensive clothes and shoes that are probably worth more than Lucas’s rent. He takes Jaehyun’s hand in a firm handshake. “Lucas, right? It seemed like Merlin was familiar with you.”

“Well, yes,” Lucas answers haltingly. “My mum—she used to work with Kingsman.”

This piques Jaehyun’s interest, as well as the others in the room. They all pause from their own conversations in a poorly concealed attempt to eavesdrop. “You’re the son of a Kingsman agent?” Jaehyun questions eagerly.

“Deceased Kingsman agent,” Lucas corrects.

Jaehyun coughs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He then turns to the bed next to Lucas’s, where the disinterested man from earlier has taken up residence. “Taeyong, was it?” Jaehyun asks with a slight grin.

Taeyong stops his inspection of the sheets to turn to Jaehyun, eyes wary. “Yes.”

“So, Taeyong: Oxford or Cambridge?”

Lucas scowls at the crass question, but neither Jaehyun nor Taeyong pay him any mind. “Didn’t really go to university, sorry,” Taeyong answers, flippant.

“Hm. Marines?”

“No.”

“I wonder where they dug you up from, then.” Jaehyun snaps his fingers. “I remember now. I think I saw a rent boy that looked like you when I was in London.”

“Piss off, mate,” Lucas finds himself saying, too aggravated to rein himself in.

Jaehyun scoffs, puffing up his chest. “A legacy like you’s got no business defending rabble like _that_.”

“Yeah?” Lucas steps closer, letting his height crowd Jaehyun. “How would you like to get hit by a legacy, then?”

“He's not worth pissing off, mate,” the recruit behind Jaehyun whispers. “Besides, d'you want to get into trouble on the first day?”

With one last contemptuous look, Jaehyun finally retreats to his own bed. Lucas rolls his eyes, turning to Taeyong with crossed arms and a knowing grin. “Never heard so much tosh in my entire life.”

Taeyong shakes his head. “You didn't have to do that.”

“No,” Lucas agrees with a tilt of his head. “But I'm glad I did. Tosser.”

The corner of Taeyong's mouth lifts, as though he's trying to stifle his smile. “Taeyong, but you already knew that.” He extends a hand, and Lucas accepts.

“Lucas, but you already knew that, too.”

“Are you really the son of a Kingsman agent?” Taeyong asks lowly, eyes shining.

“Well, yeah,” Lucas shrugs. “Dunno how much difference that makes, though—everyone else here looks all set, including you.”

“The difference is that it’s in your blood,” Taeyong answers. “How exciting.”

“Can’t be much better or worse than this lot,” Lucas gestures vaguely. "Nice meeting you, Taeyong." 

"Likewise, Lucas." Taeyong grins at him. "Looking forward to the competition."

Lucas answers with a grin of his own. “Not if you get booted off first.”

They both settle into bed without any other hindrances from the rest of the recruits, Lucas bidding a good night to his new acquaintance. Sighing, he stares up at the ceiling, wondering what surprises tomorrow will have. 

* * *

“I’ve completed phase one. They don’t suspect a thing.”

“Perhaps there may be a use for you after all. The question is—will you be able to carry out the rest of the plan?”

“I will not disappoint you.”

“I know that, darling, which is why I’m depending on you to succeed. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“I knew you were the right man for the job. I shall see you when it’s time.”

* * *

#  **DECEMBER 2020. KINGSMAN HEADQUARTERS.**

Shit, he’s late. “Come on, Bella!” Lucas beckons to the tri-colour beagle trotting at his side. Bella yips happily up at him, and he laughs, matching the pace his dog is setting. Once, he couldn’t keep up with her energy, always running about the mansion grounds; now, six months later, he can trek to and from the borders of the property that spans more or less 300 acres.

They’re on their way to afternoon tea with Mark at his favourite patio overlooking the estate greenery. Both man and dog have missed the weekly meeting exactly twice: when Lucas caught the flu, and when Bella had to get her shots. It’s the best part of the week, as far as both of them are concerned; Mark always has some sort of treat for Bella, and Lucas’s treat is getting to see the man himself.

When they open the French patio doors, Mark is already there, punctual and put together as always. “It’s ten past four,” he announces, elbow bent to check his watch.

Well, forgive him for not wanting to smell like a day’s worth of sweat while meeting up with his insanely fit mentor. “Sorry,” Lucas gasps, sliding into the seat across Mark. 

Bella sits patiently by Mark’s feet, and he smiles down at her, slipping a hand into his pocket. “Hello to you too, Bella.” He extends a hand, and she deposits a paw in it. Mark’s grin grows wider, shaking the dog’s paw as though she were a foreign dignitary. “Good girl.” He throws the treat up and Lucas watches with pride as Bella jumps up to snatch it out of the air. “You trained her well.”

“She’s a very good listener,” Lucas remarks, piling lemon squares high onto a saucer. “Just like someone else we know.”

“Hm. Merlin was telling me about your scores,” Mark starts conversationally as he pours Lucas’s tea for him. “Second place?” He raises an eyebrow, sliding the cup over the table.

“ _You_ try beating Taeyong at jiu-jitsu,” Lucas huffs, dropping two sugar cubes and a lemon wedge into his cup.

“You’re twice his size.”

“He’s twice as wily.”

“I seriously doubt that, with the amount of lip you’re giving me.” Mark takes an amused sip from his cup. “Your hacking scores are excellent, by the way. Colour me impressed.”

Lucas leans forward, grinning. “D'you want to know what else is impressive about me?”

“Knob,” Mark coughs.

“You're not wrong.”

Mark’s lips draw into a thin line, but it’s more to stifle a laugh than any real aggravation. “I wouldn’t be satisfied just yet. Your weapon scores still leave something to be desired.”

Lucas pouts, sinking back into his seat with his arms crossed. “Alright, I hear ya. More time at the shooting range for me.”

Mark smiles at him. “You read my mind.” 

God, he is so pretty. There’s no stopping the furious blush that takes over Lucas’s cheeks, and he busies himself with Bella so he can duck down and hide his face. Obviously, it’ll never happen, but throughout the past few months, his… _infatuation_ with his mentor has only grown deeper. He would have been more surprised if he _didn’t_ end up falling for Mark—polite, witty, well-put-together Mark who, despite looking like that, can take out ten people on his own.

Most of the Kingsman agents make themselves scarce at HQ, but he’s seen bits and glimpses of them, the closest to Mark being Percival and Gawain. Mark is definitely the runt of the litter, that much is clear; he bears the brunt of their teasing, flushing red whenever the other agents would do so. Despite that, it’s clear that they respect him, and even Arthur—the leader of the organization—seems to like Mark well enough.

When he had asked Merlin what the deal was with Mark, he had merely pushed up his glasses and said, “There’s not much to tell. He was raised by Bedivere, and he became a Kingsman as soon as he was able.”

“He’s a legacy?” Lucas had gasped. “Just like me?”

Merlin had winced, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Ach, I’ve already said too much. I’m sure Galahad will tell you everything in time.”

“In time” is proving to be a very long time, indeed, because Mark hasn’t said a word about how he was brought up. He spoke of other things at tea, sure—music and missions and of the other Kingsmen—but regarding himself, he’s said very little. Lucas knows to be patient, but he also knows that there must be more to Mark than just being a Kingsman.

“You’re awfully silent today,” Mark observes.

Lucas sits up straight in his seat, grimacing when he takes a sip of his now lukewarm tea. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

“You,” Lucas admits, and when Mark colours red, he sputters out an apology. “Not like that—I only meant that Merlin told me you were raised by Bedivere. I was just… curious.”

“What else is there to know?” Mark answers flippantly, but his shoulders are oddly stiff. He checks his watch and sighs. “As wonderful as this all was, Lucas, I’m afraid Arthur needs me for something and I’d hate to be late.” He finishes with a pointed look.

He salutes. “Loud and clear, Mark.”

“Very good.” Mark stands up gracefully, buttoning his suit jacket with slender fingers—not that Lucas notices. “I’ll see you next week?”

“Got nowhere else to be,” Lucas shrugs. “Of course you will.”

“What a lucky man I am, indeed,” Mark says dryly. “‘Til next time, Lucas. Bella.”

♕

Lucas practically skips back to the dorm rooms, paying no heed to the mansion staff that stare at him as he goes. The dormitories are full, as expected—well, as full as they can be with half the recruits gone home. Jaehyun sends him a particularly venomous glare as he saunters in, and Lucas retorts with a gracious middle finger.

Taeyong is lounging around in the sitting area, grinning when Lucas slides into the seat next to him. Bella runs over to greet Ruby, Taeyong’s papillon, with a sniff to her bum. “What’re _you_ so chuffed about?” Taeyong simpers.

“It’s nothing, bruv.”

“Had another date with Galahad, I presume,” Taeyong pokes at his side, Lucas scrunching his face up in distaste.

“Don’t let this lot overhear—”

“Hot for teacher!” Taeyong crows. “I can’t believe it.”

Pouting, Lucas folds his arms over his chest. “I really appreciate your discretion.”

“Oh, shut it. It’s not like I talk to any of these morons anyway.”

“Point taken,” Lucas mutters under his breath. “He _is_ quite hot, though.”

Taeyong shakes his head with a knowing smile, making himself comfortable in his wing chair. “If you’re done mooning over Galahad, I’m trying to watch the evening news.”

“You’re the one who brought it up in the first place—!” Lucas huffs, but he settles into his seat nonetheless. It’s atrocious manners, but Mark isn’t here to watch, so Lucas puts his feet up on the coffee table.

The news passes by in a blur, save for the shining image of a room gilded in gold and cream. “Avalon Enterprises is bouncing back,” the peppy news anchor is saying. Both Lucas and Taeyong lean forward in interest. “The company suffered a massive loss twelve years ago when one of their manufacturing plants collapsed in a freak accident, killing over 100 people and costing around 750,000 pounds in assets.”

“Avalon…” Lucas murmurs. “Why does that ring a bell?” Beside him, Taeyong is enraptured, leaning forward with interest.

“Brighter days are on the horizon, as the CEO has announced a gala in honour of the company’s re-entry into the market. The event will be held two weeks from now in the lavish Dorchester Ballroom, where investors and other high-profile individuals are expected to be in attendance,” the anchor finishes.

Taeyong whistles, leans back into his chair. “Those poor people in the factory. It's quite tragic, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is,” Lucas frowns. “But why is that name familiar...?”

“Well, that’s enough depressing news for me,” Taeyong announces, standing up. “I’m taking a shower. Join you for supper?”

“Who else will?” Lucas snorts, and he gets a slap on the arm for his trouble.

Taeyong shucks off his shirt, back to Lucas, and a simple tattoo reveals itself: a hand holding an upright sword.

“Wicked ink,” Lucas exclaims.

Taeyong startles, twisting to get a look at what Lucas is ogling. “Oh,” he gasps in relief, laughing a little. “It's a gift from my mum.” 

“Your mum?”

“Mhm,” Taeyong confirms with a smile, shrugging another shirt on. “She finally let me get a tattoo when I turned eighteen.”

“Does it mean anything special?” Lucas queries.

“Nothing much,” Taeyong shrugs as he snatches a towel out of his locker. “It just looked sick.”

“I feel that,” Lucas nods. “I’ve always wanted one, but I’m afraid it’ll look stupid.”

“The great Lucas Wong, insecure?” Taeyong exclaims, grinning. He whips his towel at Lucas, cackling when he shrieks indignantly. “Hey, if we both make it out of here, I’ll take you to get your own. Hold your hand and everything.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Lucas deadpans. “But really, though—you think both of us will make it?”

“As Lancelot, obviously not,” Taeyong muses. “But I have a good feeling we’ll survive one way or another.”

“I hope for both our sakes that’s true.”

“Don’t worry about it too much, kid.” Taeyong claps his shoulder. “We’re survivors, both of us.”

♕

When Lucas makes his way to the patio, someone is taking up his usual seat—Merlin, sipping daintily from a fine set of china. “Ah, Lucas. Wonderful timing.”

“Hullo, Merlin, sir,” he says cautiously, casting a sidelong glance at Mark, who’s staring into his tea. “Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all,” Merlin answers pleasantly.

Mark gestures to an empty chair. “Lucas, please. I think you need to be seated for this.” His shoulders have the same rigidity to them as they did last week, and when Bella bounds up to him, he only rubs between her ears absentmindedly.

“Oh, well—did I do something wrong?” Lucas ventures, unbuttoning his riding jacket as he sits.

The two Kingsmen exchange a look. “No, we wanted to talk to you about something important,” Mark begins carefully. “Avalon Enterprises—do you know them?”

“Yeah, I saw them on the telly last night. What about them?”

“I presume you also know about the factory collapse, then,” Mark continues. “Well, Lucas—the truth is that wasn’t a factory at all. It was a large-scale drug lab, illegally registered as a factory under the company. Avalon Enterprises was running a drug cartel.”

Lucas frowns. “I don’t see how—” His eyes widen as the realization dawns on him. “My mother.”

“Yes,” Mark says gently. “Your mother was the one to bring down that drug lab, sacrificing herself in the process.”

“She… killed all those workers?” he answers in horror.

Merlin shakes his head. “Part of the cover-up to get sympathy from investors. There were casualties, yes—but none that were unneeded.”

Lucas swallows, nods. “I assume that’s not all.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Merlin sighs, setting his teacup down with a _clink._ “We’ve been able to trace those thugs—the ones you encountered when you met Galahad—to the employ of a shell corporation owned by Avalon.”

“So you think that they’re coming for me—a revenge plot? Because of my mum?”

“It could very well be,” Merlin agrees. “Their leader and CEO—a woman named Morgana—isn’t particularly known for her forgiving nature.”

“If this Morgana woman wants revenge for what my mother’s done… what good could that possibly do her?” Lucas asks in bewilderment. “My mum is dead.”

“Who knows what resides in the hearts of the wicked?” Mark murmurs.

“We were lucky to have recruited you when we did,” Merlin adds, shooting a sidelong glance at Mark that Lucas doesn’t miss. “Having brought her company back from near-eradication, I don’t think she’s the kind of woman who would stop at just a few ill-equipped thugs.”

“What a relief,” Lucas agrees dryly.

“On top of that, Percival has discovered something unusual.” Merlin produces a manila folder, sliding its contents over the table to Lucas—a set of photographs, looking as if they were taken from afar, of shady-looking men. “Several of the criminals we have encountered have a tattoo of a cross, strangely tapered at the bottom of it. We have cause to believe that they’re all connected to Avalon Enterprises.”

“But why a tattoo?” Lucas questions. “They’re not your usual brand of gang.”

“That’s what we’re working on. Until the next encounter with an agent, we’re lost—which is why I’m here.” Merlin leans forward, hand on the table. “Considering the… personal nature of the mission, Galahad has requested that you be involved in the investigation.”

“Only if you want to,” Mark adds. “We could use the extra perspective.”

“Of course I do!” Lucas bursts out. “If this madwoman has it out for me, I’d like to know about it.”

There’s the slightest of smiles on Mark’s face. “Very good. I look forward to working with you.”

“As do I,” Merlin agrees. “You’ve taken all this very well, Lucas. We may make a Kingsman of you yet.”

♕

Weeks pass by with no developments on the Avalon case. The December chill gets worse and worse, foretelling the arrival of snow; running the trails proves more difficult, but he and Taeyong—and their dogs—manage. He hasn’t told Taeyong anything about the Avalon situation, though. It feels like something that should just be between him and Mark—and all the other Kingsman agents.

Much to Lucas’s equal pleasure and distaste, only he, Taeyong, and Jaehyun are left in their dormitory rooms. Admittedly, it’s gratifying to see Jaehyun without his usual posse—but what he lacks in numbers, he makes up for in attitude, being twice as unpleasant as he already was. Taeyong, meanwhile, has mastered the art of annoying Jaehyun with as little as his existence. Nothing pisses the other recruit off more than being bested during their training, as all entitled pricks are wont to do when they don’t get what they think they deserve. Jaehyun makes Lucas grateful for the circumstances he grew up in; he shudders to think if he had turned out like _that_.

Case in point. He finds himself on the receiving end of yet another glare from Jaehyun when Merlin pulls him aside after one of their debriefing sessions. “Go to conference room A when you're done washing up,” Merlin advises him. “It's about the Avalon case.”

“Yes, sir,” he answers, shrugging when Taeyong cocks an eyebrow at him. It feels like shit, lying by omission to Taeyong, but he's not about to break Merlin—or Mark's—trust.

He does as he's instructed, dressing in his smartest standard-issue coveralls before heading down to conference room A. The length of it is taken up by a large oak table, although only three people occupy it for now: Mark, Merlin, and Arthur.

“Merlin, sir?” Lucas ventures. He has to try not to squirm under the scrutiny of the three men. “You called?”

“I did, actually.” It’s Arthur who speaks, stirring sugar into his black tea. “I trust that Merlin has informed you of the purpose of this meeting? I would like you to see what we’re dealing with first-hand.”

Lucas's eyes flit across to Merlin for confirmation, who simply jerks his head toward an empty seat and turns to the box in front of them. Mark smiles encouragingly at him, and he feels his ears grow hot, folding himself into the chair next to the agent.

“Please, continue,” Arthur gestures to Merlin. 

“We all remember the tattoos on the Avalon agents?" Merlin questions, and they all nod. “Well, our scientists have discovered something peculiar about them.” Merlin flips open the box in the middle of the table, and a vapour escapes it: dry ice.

Lucas peers into the box, much to his regret. “Oh, a severed hand. How lovely.”

“Not just any severed hand. A severed hand from an Avalon agent who… outlived his usefulness," Merlin says.

“Merlin, why am I looking at a severed hand right now?” Lucas demands with poorly-concealed distress.

“At our last meeting, you questioned why Morgana would bother marking her men with tattoos,” Merlin repeats. “You were on the right track. There must have been something special about them, or she wouldn’t have gone through the trouble. Luckily, we were able to run scans on this tattoo in particular and discovered something truly worthwhile: micro-circuitry embedded in the ink. She’s using the tattoos as trackers, to see where her men are at all times. To rein them in, one assumes.”

“Micro-surveillance, all the rage,” Arthur mutters in distaste, sipping from his cup. “Find my iPhone too blasé for drug lords nowadays.”

“And the men have no idea?” Lucas questions.

“No,” Mark says quietly. They all turn to him, surprised at his finally speaking up. “My parents had the same tattoos. They never knew they were trackers.”

Lucas’s eyes widen, and he turns to face Mark. “Your parents—they worked for Avalon? But I thought you were raised by Bedivere?”

“Both are true,” Mark answers curtly. His tone—and the way Merlin and Arthur are avoiding his eyes—is enough to dissuade Lucas from prying even further. “Merlin, the trackers must be emitting a signal. Can you trace it?”

"Ahead of you, Galahad. I’ve traced it to Mayfair."

“The venue of the gala.” They all turn to Lucas, and he flushes. “It was on the telly—Avalon is having a gala for their grand reopening at the Dorchester Ballroom, in Mayfair.”

“It lines up all too well if you ask me,” Arthur mutters.

“It’s still a lead worth pursuing," Mark insists. "Arthur, I can go undercover and scope the area out. I’ll be careful.” He’s leaning forward in his seat, more than eager. What was it that Merlin had said? The “personal nature” of the mission. It seems that not only Lucas has his motivations for being on the case.

“Arthur is right, Galahad. It looks like a trap,” he warns with a frown.

“It’s one I’m willing to walk into,” Mark assures him, smiling when he makes no effort to hide his concern. “It’s the best lead we have, one that we’ll have to follow one way or another. I’ll be fine.”

Reluctantly, Lucas nods, sinking back into his seat.

“It’s as you say, then, Galahad,” Arthur acquiesces. “Merlin, have Gawain on standby in case anything goes amiss.”

“Will do, sir.”

“All of you—dismissed.”

Before Lucas can catch him, Mark graces him with one last, tight-lipped smile, and he slips out of the conference room. Merlin catches his gaze, and he smiles, too. “In time,” he mouths. Lucas can only nod and, after a reproachful look from Arthur, follow Mark and leave conference room A.

♕

A day before the gala, snow starts falling on the mansion grounds, and the house itself is filled with decorations in every hallway. Not that all of them can enjoy it, having been whittled down to two recruits—him and Taeyong, obviously. They aren’t at all sad to see Jaehyun go; it's a particularly entertaining evening when he finally leaves, begging for his life as he struggles against the ropes tied to the train tracks. Percival lets him go with one last gracious sniff, tossing a knife onto the gravel as he does so.

“My father will hear about this!” he cries. Merlin rolls his eyes and shuts the viewing window with the push of a button, swivelling in his chair to face him, Taeyong, Galahad, and Arthur—a shock, to be sure. As if Taeyong wasn't any less impressive, Lucas thinks with envy, he was recommended by the head of Kingsman himself.

“Galahad, Arthur—congratulations,” Merlin says graciously. “Your candidates have reached the final stage of the selection process. As is tradition, you have 24 hours to spend with your mentors.” Arthur and Taeyong look particularly chuffed, but Taeyong sobers up at the next words: “From now on, there are no safety nets.”

Lucas and Taeyong lock eyes and nod.

“Very good. Dismissed.”

Lucas and Mark break apart from the group, stowing themselves away in a corner of the control room. “I have you all to myself for a day, huh?” Mark questions, sly grin stretching across his face as he looks up through his glasses. 

Lucas coughs and tries his best not to flush. “Been waiting for this, I presume?” he shoots back. 

“For you to reach the final stretch?” Mark laughs. “Definitely. Congratulations, Lucas. Really. I knew you'd make it this far.”

"Let's just hope I'll make it to the end, eh?" 

"I have faith that you will. Now: is there anything you'd like to do before your last test?" 

"Whatever is fine." And really, it is. Lucas would wade through a pool of crocodiles as long as it meant that he would be spending time with Mark.

"Alright. I might have something in mind…" Mark checks his watch. "I'll pick you up at eight." 

"In the evening?" 

"In the morning. I intend to make full use of my 24 hours,” Mark promises with a smile. 

Okay, now he's definitely blushing. Damn Mark and his smooth talk. “Brilliant. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Eight o’clock _sharp,_ Lucas.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Lucas grumbles. “I’ll be there.”

“You better.” Mark gathers himself with a smile. “Sweet dreams, Lucas.”

He steadfastly ignores Merlin’s knowing smirk as he, with his beet-red face, makes his way out of the control room.

♕

Eagerness most definitely does _not_ play a part in his being dressed and ready at 7:45. Mark arrives in a town car at 8:00, as promised, and Lucas slides into the seat next to the agent. “You clean up well,” Mark comments, eyeing his button-up and slacks. It might be wishful thinking, but Lucas thinks he’s eyeing the extra unbuttoned button on his shirt, as well.

Lucas shrugs. “It’s all they had. I wanted to look at least halfway decent next to you.”

Mark smiles at that, reaching forward to push a stray lock off of Lucas’s forehead. “You always look good, don’t worry.” His tongue, Lucas finds as Mark resumes his position, is drier than the Sahara.

The other man is silent when Lucas prods him about their destination, finally allowing a small smile when they pull into the lush green grounds of a club—a rifling club. “You’re taking me to a shooting range,” Lucas says blankly.

Mark looks particularly pleased with himself. “I said we’d make use of the day, didn’t I?”

“You just want to wipe the floor with me.”

“I wouldn’t dare! I simply want to teach you more about sharpshooting.”

The morning spent at the shooting range is, admittedly, enjoyable; Lucas would never admit it to the intelligence agent, but Mark is a much better teacher than Merlin, who all but barks in his ear when he makes a mistake. Mark is patient, spending most of his time observing Lucas for mistakes—of course, _he_ hits the bull’s eye every time with any weapon, so Lucas has just taken to mimicking whatever he does. By noon, he’s managed to actually hit the centres of the target, which Mark declares as a win. 

Lunch at the clubhouse is a simple affair—not that Lucas could tell, busy ogling Mark across the table. If Mark notices, he doesn’t say a thing. 

The car then brings them to the tailor shop, which looks much less menacing by day. Mark ushers him into a fitting room to get his measurements for a suit taken by a _regular_ tailor, poking and prodding impatiently at him in an attempt to rein in his fidgeting, to no avail. 

His mentor squeezes into the room once they’re done, grinning up at him. “No biometric scanners in the mirror, this time?” Lucas snorts.

“Of course not. Pull on the second hook to your left,” Mark orders. Bewildered, Lucas does as he’s told; the wall peels away to reveal a room full of suits, shoes, and perfume interspersed with an impressive display of guns.

“Now _this_ is what I’m talking about!” Lucas crows, gawking at everything in the room. “The guns, I understand. But what are the clothes doing here?” He picks up a pocket square, holding it in front of his nose in disdain.

“Everything in this room has a purpose. Those are coated in a very special formulation of chloroform,” Mark explains. “Perfectly harmless in your pocket, lethal to whoever you choose to suffocate with it.”

“Cool.” Lucas carefully stuffs the pocket square into a suit jacket, trailing a hand over a row of lighters.

“Don’t touch those, they’re hand grenades.”

Lucas retracts his hand. “And those?” he asks, pointing at a box of cufflinks.

“Signal scramblers. They disrupt radio signals—except ours, of course—within a certain radius.”

“What about the shoes, then?”

Mark grins. “Oxfords, for any formal event. There’s a poison-coated blade in the toe, so I’d suggest you be careful with that, as well…” He points to one of the shoes, decorated with perforations in curling lines. “This pattern is called broguing. I don’t tend to go for the ones that have those, personally,” he says, expression sour enough that it makes Lucas laugh. “You had better try a pair on. You’ll need one with your suit.” 

“If you please,” Lucas agrees, seating himself on one of the ottomans and chucking his shoes—a regular pair of slip-ons—off.

Mark selects a pair and descends onto one knee. Lucas desperately prays that there's no device that can read minds.

The sight of Mark's eyelashes fanned across his cheeks is almost too much to bear—the way Mark looks up at him definitely _is_ too much, and Lucas forces himself to look away, feigning interest in the wall of guns even though all he wants is to thread his fingers through Mark's carefully styled hair and—

“All done,” Mark announces, brushing off his knees as he straightens himself. “How do they fit?”

Lucas stands up, flexing his toes. “You somehow got my exact size.”

“You learn a thing or two when you have a tailor shop for a front,” Mark smiles. “Sometimes, I find myself spending time here at the shop, if I’m feeling too restless to go home.”

This piques Lucas’s attention, the first mention of any kind of residence apart from the Kingsman mansion. “I’ve always wondered what your home was like,” he says, slipping his shoes back on.

Mark quirks an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

“Not like that!” Lucas sputters, even though his baser instincts are definitely saying otherwise. “You don’t live at HQ, right? So you must go _somewhere._ ”

“You’re correct. I rent an apartment on West End.” Mark tilts his head. “Would you like me to take you home?”

“In the biblical sense?”

“At least take me to dinner first.”

Lucas breaks at that, and he feels his ears grow hot. “I hope you're alright with McDonald's, then.”

“Oh, God no,” Mark says, dead serious. “I've reached my quota of junk food for the entire year. How about the Ritz? I always have a table reserved there.” 

“I have no clue what that is, but I'm good as long as you're paying.”

“Not very gentlemanly, I would say,” Mark responds, beckoning towards the fitting room.

Lucas stands up to follow him. “I'll pay you back when I pass the final test.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

The Ritz, as it turns out, is a Michelin-starred restaurant that Lucas is most certainly underdressed for, but Mark somehow manages to secure them a private room out of sight of the other posh patrons. Within a few minutes, plates of dishes that Lucas can’t even pronounce fill their table; as soon as the plates are empty, another course replaces it. Luckily for the dishwashers at the Ritz, both of them eat with zeal.

As promised, they squeeze into the town car and head to West End. The closer they get to their spot, the more Lucas's eyes widen at the buildings next to them, until they come to a stop next to a distinct skyscraper. "Here is fine," Mark tells the chauffeur, ushering Lucas to step off.

He stares up at the building, unable to keep his mouth closed. "You didn’t say you lived in flipping _Centre Point,_ " he accuses, following Mark into the lobby. 

"Well—I didn’t want to sound pretentious," Mark rebuts, flashing an ID to the doorman. "I chose Centre Point because it’s close to the Royal Opera House." 

"Oh, because going to the opera is definitely less pretentious," Lucas snorts, marvelling at the chandelier as they make their way through the lobby. 

"Quiet, you."

"I think the security man just _glared_ at me." 

"Why are you so paranoid?" Mark laughs, pressing the elevator button.

"I don’t fit in here," Lucas mutters, crossing his arms as they step into the elevator. "Feels like I’m going to break something."

"Well, if you catch any more security guards being rude, let me know so I can tell them to fuck off."

"My knight in shining armour." 

Mark's apartment is located on the eleventh floor. A white poodle immediately comes dashing towards the entryway to greet them, jumping up and down and barking happily. "Hello, Dolly," Mark laughs, letting the dog lick his hand. "Quiet, girl. The neighbours will hear." 

"'Hello, Dolly?'" Lucas repeats, stepping into the apartment after Mark. "Like the musical?"

"Well, yes."

Lucas rolls his eyes, smiling. "Of course you’d name your dog after a musical."

"I grew up with them," Mark defends, picking the poodle up. "Minseok—Bedivere used to put them on to lull me to sleep. Didn’t know anything about raising a child, bless him. But I’d like to think I turned out alright."

He trails after Mark and Dolly; the hallway is sparsely decorated save for a dark mahogany table piled with odds and ends, a simple mirror hung above it. The living room is warmer than Lucas expected it to be, with a plush couch and two red-backed armchairs that look like they would swallow you alive if you sank into them. The glass coffee table is piled high with books, as well, arranged neatly around a centrepiece of white lilies.

In the kitchen is a dining table much like the one in conference room A back at headquarters—utilized for the same purpose, Lucas assumes. A china cabinet stands off to the side, which Lucas stays well away from; Mark is bent over the refrigerator on the other side of the room, rummaging for something or other. "Are you a rum or whisky man?" he calls over his shoulder.

"Beer's more my speed." 

"Noted. I think I have some around here…" 

While Mark busies himself with finding a drink, Lucas takes the opportunity to explore the rest of the apartment. It’s decorated minimally, with a few paintings on the cream walls and sculptures here and there; beneath the stairs is a spot for Dolly, well-loved toys resting peacefully on a fluffy pink bed. At the end of the hallway is a door made of deep red wood; Lucas is staring at it, wondering what’s in there, when Mark speaks up behind him.

“Got your beer,” he says with a smile, handing Lucas an ice-cold bottle of Guinness. “Ah, I see you’ve found my study. It's my favourite room—would you like to see?”

“Please,” Lucas answers with a smile, trailing eagerly behind Mark as he enters.

The walls of Mark’s study are painted a deep red, with a well-varnished desk occupying most of the room. On the sideboard is a selection of liquors in crystal decanters, and a bookcase sits in the corner, almost full to bursting. The star of the room, though, is the wall adjacent to the desk: a shelf full of vinyl records. "You collect records?” Lucas remarks, sauntering over to the shelf. “These don't seem very old."

Mark beams, clearly pleased that Lucas had taken notice. "The relics are stored elsewhere. These are just mementoes."

"Mementoes?" 

"Of past successes. For every mission I've completed, I purchase a record released that day."

Lucas thumbs at one of the sleeves, impressed. “Huh. Lil Uzi Vert.”

“Stopped a terrorist organization from blowing up the tube,” Mark provides. 

“Jesus…” He points to a Mac Miller record. “What about ‘Swimming’?”

“Broke up a human trafficking ring in Belfast. Rest in peace.” 

He pulls out a white sleeve, carefully showcasing it to Mark. “‘Dedicated’?" 

"One of Harry's exes wanted to sabotage Meghan." Mark sighs. "Not that the press hasn’t done enough of that already…" 

Lucas grins, carefully placing the record back into its original position. "It's an impressive collection." 

"Thank you. I have every intention of expanding it." Mark settles into his desk chair, an upholstered monster of a thing that almost dwarfs him. It's adorable. 

"I see why this is your favourite room," Lucas remarks. 

“Loads of memories, yeah.” Inadvertently, Mark’s eyes stray over to the fireplace on the other wall, and Lucas follows. There are several framed pictures scattered over the mantel: one of the current Kingsman agents, a few unfamiliar faces scattered among those of Merlin, Gawain, Percival, and Arthur; another with a twelve-year-old Mark and an older man in front of a quaint little house. 

At the very end is a frayed picture of a man, different from the first, and a woman smiling at the camera. Lucas picks it up, surveying the couple. “Are these your parents?”

Mark's answer comes a beat too late. “Yes.”

“But you said you were raised by Bedivere?” Lucas has seen the agent only once—a kind man with smiling eyes who looked fondly at Mark. 

“Yes, Minseok,” Mark says absently. “I'm technically an orphan, like you.” He downs another sip of his whisky. “My birth parents worked for Avalon—drug mules. Their plane crashed on the way to a drop site in Singapore.”

Lucas sets the picture down, turning to Mark. “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be.” Mark finishes off his glass. “After the attack on the drug lab, Avalon went into damage control mode. Laying people off left and right, killing the people who knew too much about their underground operation. Kingsman was part of the reparations when the company collapsed, making sure everyone out of a job would find another one, or the children without parents would be taken in. I was one of those children. I was adopted and raised by my mentor, Bedivere; without me knowing it, he was raising me to become a Kingsman, as well. Much like your mother tried to do, even when she wasn't with you anymore.

“It was my choice to join, though—he always reiterated that, when the time came. But of course, I accepted. I wanted to know as much as I could about the organization that brought about the demise of the company that killed my parents. I suppose you and I are similar, in that regard. That we both wanted knowledge.

“I learned about your mother and what she did. And when Kingsman learned about your existence—I couldn't help but feel guilty.” Mark finally meets his eyes. “You and I, both orphaned, but only you were left alone. So I jumped at the opportunity to protect you. It was the only way I could express my gratitude.”

“And recruiting me, of course,” Lucas adds.

“That was less gratitude and more admiration, I'll admit.” Mark stands up from his chair to lean against the wood of his desk. “You will become an excellent agent, Lucas. I know it.”

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I really couldn’t have done it without you.”

Mark waves a flippant hand. “Nonsense. It was all you—I was simply the recruiter.”

Lucas purses his lips, shrugging. “I really don't know how I'll live up to what you and my mum have done.”

“Oh, Lucas.” Mark frowns. “You've come this far—this isn't the time to doubt yourself.”

“I know that, I just can't help it. Everyone's looking at me, you know?” he confesses, stepping closer to Mark. “Even you. They expect great things from me because I'm my mother's son.”

“Lucas, you're not special because of your parents. You're special because you're _you_ , and you chose to forge your way in this world.” Mark looks up encouragingly at him. “Tell me, have your intentions in joining Kingsman changed?”

“Well, at first I _did_ just do it because I wanted to learn more about my mum, but now… I want to help. In whatever way I can.”

“And that's precisely why you'll succeed, son of a Kingsman or not.”

Lucas smiles, all sorts of rainbows and honeypots and flowers blooming in his chest. “Thank you, Mark.”

“What kind of mentor am I if I can't spit out platitudes every once in a while, hm?” Mark returns. “Not that I wasn't sincere, of course.”

Mark is smiling so sweetly up at him, and finally, _finally_ he's a little less well-put together than he usually is: stray hairs across his forehead, suit jacket draped over his desk chair, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. And he looks _good,_ like everything Lucas wants, so he can't help himself from stepping closer.

Mark, for all his training, finds himself trapped by Lucas's arms, hands resting on the wood of the desk. He's flushed, Lucas notes with satisfaction, and his heart skips a beat when Mark closes his eyes expectantly.

He leans forward, but then there's a hand on his arm, firm in its grip. Lucas opens his eyes to see Mark with his head turned, and he draws away.

Mark meets his eyes, regret written all over them. "Lucas, I… I don't think this is a good idea," he whispers.

Lucas hastily steps away, ears burning, flowers in his chest wilting. "No, you're right. You're my mentor, I crossed a line I shouldn't have."

Mark sighs. "I'm glad you understand." 

Somehow, Mark's relief stings more than his rejection. Heart pounding, Lucas gestures to the hallway. He cannot get away quickly enough. "I—I'll head back to the tailor shop. Good luck at the gala tonight."

"Thank you. Be safe."

Lucas nods and makes to leave, movements wooden—but he’s stopped by Mark calling his name. “I had a wonderful time today, Lucas,” Mark says, eyes wide and honest. “I look forward to meeting you again as Lancelot.” 

He smiles, unable to resist—the gravity of this man, his presence, his unknowing devastation. “Me, too.”

♕

“Five more minutes,” Lucas grumbles. The alarm seems unforgivably loud today—it’s rattling through his bones, and even Bella is upset, barking like mad at his feet. “Shh, Bella. Taeyong, what the fuck is up with the alarm?”

No answer. Lucas’s eyes fly open, and he looks to his left—no Taeyong, and no Ruby, either. He’s awake enough now to register that this isn’t the usual six am alarm: it’s an emergency, and judging by the commotion outside, a large one. “Shit, we gotta get out there,” he tells Bella. She’s growling now, little eyes locked on the door.

It bursts open, and Lucas raises his fists in anticipation—but it’s only Merlin, looking haggard and lowering the gun he had raised towards Lucas. “Thank God you’re alive,” he exclaims, throwing Lucas a pistol. “Taeyong?”

“Probably still with Arthur?” he tries, lowering the safety on the gun.

“Let’s just hope they got to safety. The headquarters is under attack.”

Lucas’s eyes widen. “Under attack? By who?”

“No fucking clue,” Merlin admits. “Come on, Percival is waiting in the safe room. Follow me.” His eyes drift towards Bella, who’s pacing restlessly around the room. “Put the dog in the backpack, they're bulletproof. Try not to let her get shot.”

“Fuck,” Lucas exclaims emphatically, scooping Bella up into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. “Alright, let’s go.”

He and Merlin step out, back to back with their guns raised. They round the corner without incident, managing to make their way through the east wing of the mansion with only one casualty—a poor chap designated to guard the deserted corridor who Merlin did not hesitate to shoot between the eyes. 

"The other staff?" Lucas huffs out. 

“Had them all evacuated the moment the gunfire started. Still lost some men, though, the fuckers.” Merlin presses a fingertip to the frame of his glasses. “Shit, the external signal's all scrambled—I can't get ahold of Gawain.”

"Aren't there any other agents in the mansion?" 

"Just Percival—Gawain's on standby for Galahad, remember?" 

"Fuck. I hope they're alright." 

"You and me both." Merlin's eyes widen, hands slow to raise his gun. "On your left—!" 

Lucas blindly fires his pistol, and a man collapses to his left. "Oh fuck—Merlin, I owe you one." 

"Thank me later, we have to get out of this alive first." 

After what seems like an eternity, they come to a stop in front of a suit of armour. Merlin pulls at a finger on one of its greaves, and the wall behind it slides open to reveal a room. “Come on, quickly, quickly,” Merlin orders, and Lucas skulks into the room, the agent following close behind him.

The safe room is more modest compared to the rest of the mansion, but what it lacks in decoration it makes up in firepower. The weapons locker in the tailor shop can't possibly compare: each wall is filled with firearms of every imaginable kind, even some that Lucas hasn't seen before. A maze of munition crates litters the floor, one of them marked with a large “FLAMMABLE! DO NOT SMOKE WITHIN 100 FT.”

At the very end of the room are two heads peeking out from behind a crate. “Stop! Don't move!” someone cries out.

“Arthur! Percival,” Merlin exclaims in relief, lowering his pistol. The agents straighten themselves, flicking on the safeties of their own guns. “Thank God.”

“Lucas, Merlin.” Arthur frowns. “Where’s Taeyong?”

“We thought he would be with you,” Lucas answers in confusion, then pauses. Eyes widening, he grabs at Merlin’s arm. “It was Taeyong. _He_ let the men in—they’re from Avalon.”

“On what grounds?” Arthur exclaims.

“He has a tattoo on his lower back, said his mother got it for him—a sword. The tattoos on the Avalon workers—they aren’t crosses, they’re _swords,_ Merlin, they have tapered ends—the tracking circuitry, that's how they found us out!”

Percival is the first to turn his gun on Arthur, followed by Merlin. Hesitantly, Lucas does the same.

“So, Taeyong is an Avalon agent,” Percival rasps. “And his ‘mother’—I'm willing to bet it's Morgana. _You're_ the one responsible for this,” he spits at Arthur. 

Arthur puts his hands up, a slow and careful movement. “If Taeyong _is_ the traitor,” he starts slowly. “I don’t know of it. I spent the whole day with him—I thought he was a dropout, just like the rest of us.”

“And if you’re lying?” Percival challenges.

“Percival,” Merlin warns. “He’s no use to us dead. I say we restrain him for now.”

Arthur takes a deep breath and stares straight at Lucas. “Heavy is the hand with the hilt.”

Immediately, he's struck, lowering his gun. Percival and Merlin round on him in surprise, but he's at a loss. There's something familiar about the phrase, and it feels like he _should_ know what it means—but before he can think, the sound of static crackling overtakes the room, and a woman’s voice breaks the silence. 

“Agents, lower your weapons. Baekhyun Byun is not a traitor to Kingsman.”

Stunned, Percival and Merlin lower their weapons. “Who is _that?_ ” Lucas wonders aloud.

The voice pays no heed. “Arthur, I have informed Agent Gawain of your situation. He will arrive at headquarters shortly with air transport. As of now, I am initiating the Excalibur Protocol. End of transmission.”

Silence in the room, until— “ _Fuck,_ ” Merlin swears.

“Who _was_ that?” Lucas repeats, glancing frantically at each of the Kingsmen in turn.

“The Lady,” Percival answers solemnly. “She’s who the organization answers to—even Arthur. If she says that he’s innocent, he is.”

“And we’re supposed to just _believe_ her?”

“The chain of command exists for a reason,” Percival says gruffly, throwing a venomous glance at Arthur. “‘Heavy is the hand’—what does that mean?”

“Nothing. It’s a code phrase, should the ranks be compromised by Avalon.” Arthur turns to Lucas, then. “A plan devised by your mother. Only the Lady and I know of it.”

Percival’s jaw is set, unhappy with the answer. “The moment we discover that you’re lying, I’m going to kill you myself,” he threatens, gesturing at Arthur with his pistol.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Arthur answers coolly.

“As much as I’d love to argue, sir,” Merlin interrupts, “We still have to get the fuck out of here.”

Arthur nods. “Right.” He procures a submachine gun from one of the shelves in the room, gesturing with it to all of them. “Arm yourself with whatever you want. Gawain will most likely land on the courtyard—we need to be there when that happens so the plane doesn't get compromised.” He straps a _thing_ of magazines across his back, looking at them pointedly as he does so, and they scramble into action. 

Lucas chooses a standard-issue pistol like the one Mark had shown him earlier in the day. Merlin nods his approval, cocking his own assault rifle that looks much too big for his lithe body.

Armed to the teeth, they venture out of the safe room with Arthur leading the charge. Lucas knows that he must have gotten to his position due to his skill, but after only seeing him sit around the oak table in their drawing-room, it's a surprise to see the Kingsman leader in action. He’s a one-man army, cutting down everyone in their way before they can even pull their triggers, replacing magazines with a deadly precision that makes Lucas resolve not to get on his bad side.

The real challenge begins in the main corridor leading out to the courtyard. Percival wastes no time firing both pistols in his hands, weaving through the mass of bodies in perfect synergy with Arthur who’s spraying bullets into everyone in his path. Merlin provides supporting fire, picking off the rest from a distance with headshot after headshot from his AR-15.

“Fuck you doin’, recruit?” Merlin screams at him. “Shift yourself!”

Months of being conditioned to follow Merlin’s every order kick in and he rushes into the fray, nerves disallowing him any type of fatally damaging shot. His finger feels large and clumsy on the trigger, watching red bloom on the stomachs of their adversaries. Mark would be disappointed. 

One of them barges straight into his path, cocking an assault rifle at his head—he ducks, ramming into the goon’s stomach with his shoulder and tackling him onto the marble floor. Lucas doesn’t hesitate to put a hole in his neck.

They barge through the mansion’s front doors, where they’re met with even more reinforcements. Even more importantly, the grass beneath them stirs, accompanied by the deafening sound of a machine—a Gulfstream jet, descending onto the turf of the courtyard. 

Merlin beams. “Gawain!” he exclaims joyfully, shooting a soldier in the face. “Transport is here!”

“Roger that!” Arthur clocks a man's jaw with the butt of his gun, shoving an elbow into his gut and emptying a few rounds into it for good measure. “ _Run!_ ”

All of them book it towards the jet, dodging bullets and pumping their legs as fast as they can. Lucas slings his backpack around to his chest, clutching Bella close to shield her. 

No sooner than Percival has stepped foot on the boarding steps, Gawain pulls them up, safely sealing them within the aircraft and lifting them up into the air. Lucas sets his backpack down and out comes Bella, yipping happily around their feet, happy to be released from her confines. 

They're about 100 feet above ground when Gawain calls over his shoulder, “Percival! Do us the honours.”

Percival grins, cracking his knuckles. “Don’t mind if I do.” With the push of a button, a missile shoots towards the men still scrambling on the courtyard. The resulting explosion is almost blinding; even after he blinks, there are still spots in Lucas’s vision. But it’s done, and the courtyard is a field of smouldering ash.

“Well done, Gawain,” Arthur exclaims, clapping the agent on the back. “Just in the nick of time. Where’s Galahad?”

“The Lady told me to abandon the mission—getting you out of HQ was top priority,” Gawain answers in confusion.

“Wait, sir—we just left Galahad there? To fend for himself?” Lucas protests.

Arthur turns to him, eyes steely. “You do _not_ speak to me like that, recruit.”

“Sir—!”

“These are our _orders,_ Lucas,” Arthur says, voice low and dangerous. “I dislike leaving Galahad as much as you, but in case it escaped your notice, we are in all-out war with Avalon. We cannot fight this war if we are all _dead_.”

“It was Galahad’s war first,” Lucas answers with no small amount of venom. Bella whimpers at his feet.

Arthur opens his mouth, reprimand at the ready, but he’s interrupted by one of the television screens coming to life with a loud crackle of static. Then, clear as day, appears a picture of a bound and gagged Galahad, followed by a message: 

YOUR KNIGHT NEEDS RESCUING. - T


	2. Part Two

#  **DECEMBER 2020. THE ATLANTIC OCEAN.**

Once Lucas is quite sure that Bella’s been put to sleep, he ventures towards the cockpit of the plane, unable to sleep himself. Try as he might, he can't get the image of Mark out of his mind; Mark bound and gagged, unconscious, powerless. Nothing like the Mark that guided him through his six months in training, the Mark that taught him how to shoot a gun straight, whom he had very nearly kissed just hours ago.

A glance out of the window tells nothing except that they're flying over water, which Lucas is even more anxious about. Come to think of it, it's the first time he's flown—ever. The adrenaline of the fight had prevented him from this realization, and he has to fight the urge to get sick all over the nice (and undoubtedly expensive) seats. 

The cockpit affords a larger view of the body of water they're flying over, which Lucas resolutely avoids in favour of the pilots that occupy the seats before him. Merlin has switched out for Gawain, who’s dozing off in the co-pilot’s seat. The agent greets Lucas with a smile, and he rests his forearm on the headrest. “Doesn’t your co-pilot need to be awake?” he questions. 

“For an aircraft this small? No.” Merlin waves a hand. “Truth be told, though, we’ve been on auto-pilot for an hour now.”

Lucas chuckles. “Where are we headed, anyway?”

“Fuck if I know,” Merlin admits. “We’re quite literally in the middle of nowhere. You saw we had to cut all communication lines, just in case Taeyong and Avalon can track the plane. We can’t even contact the Lady, just follow her orders.”

“The Lady,” Lucas repeats. “So this… Lady, she knew my mother? Enough to guard the failsafe for Avalon?”

“Yes. She only colludes with the highest-ranking agents, or the most exceptional ones. Your mother was the latter, in this case, because she devised the failsafe. Arthur always said she had—”

“Excellent foresight,” Lucas finishes with a smile. Merlin raises his brows, but otherwise says nothing. “What about Galahad?”

“Galahad can manage himself, no doubt about it.”

“Still…”

Merlin lets go of the yoke, which gives Lucas more anxiety than he’d like to admit. “Look: Taeyong knows how to get under your skin, more than anyone else here,” Merlin explains. “He’s using Galahad to provoke you into doing something rash. But we need to bide our time, see what the best move is. We can’t make the same mistake and walk into another trap.”

Lucas nods. “I understand. Thank you, Merlin.”

“It’s no issue, Lucas.” Merlin turns back to the controls. “Now, shift it. I bet you could use some sleep. No trouble getting comfortable for you, I presume.”

Lucas looks down at his pyjamas and sighs. “You’re probably right. I’ll see you in the morning, Merlin.”

Carefully, he exits the cockpit, closing the door as silently as he can to not disturb Gawain. What greets him is Arthur and Percival by two of the window seats that face each other, speaking in low voices. They don’t seem to notice his presence, so Lucas skulks about, trying to make himself scarce, but freezes when he hears Percival speak.

“I'm sorry.” Percival reaches across the table and, to Lucas’s surprise, grasps Arthur’s hand.

“Jongin, it's perfectly fine,” Arthur says with a smile. “Nothing personal, right?”

“I pointed a gun at you, Baekhyun! For a moment, I was considering killing you—”

“As you should have. Jongin—it was the honourable thing to do. It's what a true Kingsman would have done.”

“Kill the person he loves to preserve an organization?” Percival asks brokenly.

“If that organization works for the greater good, yes,” Arthur murmurs. “But I'm not a traitor, nor am I dead.”

“Thankfully,” Percival laughs.

Arthur’s smile grows wider, and he squeezes at Percival’s hand in his. “I'm sorry you had to go through that.”

“No, you're right. You would have done the same.”

“Let's just pray it doesn't happen again.”

Percival nods, smiling comfortingly at Arthur, who responds with his own relieved grin. Inexplicably, it makes Lucas’s heart ache.

His sniffle calls the attention of both agents, who swivel in their seats to catch him standing by the cockpit doors like an idiot.

“Oh, Lucas,” Arthur notes, as though he hadn’t just walked into his superior baring his heart out to his other superior. “You had better get some sleep.”

“Yes, sir. Percival,” Lucas stutters, slinking around them until he reaches the back room.

Sighing, he feels around for the light switch. Bella is still asleep, a momentary relief; he curls up on the bed next to the beagle, playing with her floppy ears until he, too, falls into a deep slumber.

♕

There’s the faintest sliver of light on the horizon when the plane finally begins its descent. Lucas ventures to the cockpit once again, bypassing a slumbering Percival. Arthur, whose shoulder is serving as the agent's pillow, rouses him from sleep. Merlin is doing the same to Gawain by kicking at his seat; disgruntled, he yawns large enough for his jaw to crack. "Are we there yet?" 

"Yes, so please help me land the plane," Merlin requests, and Gawain takes hold of his yoke. 

From his position between the two pilots, Lucas has a perfect view of their destination growing larger and larger as they descend: a tropical island full of lush green forests, punctuated with a collection of low-roofed buildings near the southern beach. On the northern side of the island is a volcano, its curved slopes punctuated with deep grooves where lava once flowed. 

Lucas whistles. "What is this place?" 

Behind him, Arthur answers. "Camelot Resort and Spa. Also known as the Lady's base of operations." 

"First a tailor shop, now a resort," Lucas enthuses, impressed. "Don't tell me you're hiding a country club somewhere?"

"I'll make sure to let you know if something turns up," Arthur replies lightly. "It's good to be back." 

"London 47, requesting permission to land?" Merlin says into his earpiece. 

"London 47, you are cleared for landing," a female voice responds. "Over."

A square of forest parts to reveal a gaping hole in the middle of the island, from which a runway rises in anticipation of their jet. The seatbelt signs flash red, but their descent is smooth enough that none of them bother.

The five of them descend the stairs of the jet, blinking up at the sun; Lucas sets down the hand shielding his eyes in time to see two golf carts with no drivers approaching, coming to a perfect stop in front of them. 

"I suppose this is our ride," Arthur says, a little invigorated. "Hop in, boys. You're in for a treat." 

"Bella, come." The beagle is only too happy to trot after him, settling in his lap once he's seated across Percival and Gawain. 

The ride to the resort is tranquil, punctuated by birdsong and the distant sound of the rushing ocean. Lucas allows himself to breathe, take it all in—he's never been anywhere like this in his life, and even though he’s on the job, he’ll be damned if he won’t enjoy what little he can. 

The golf carts come to a stop in the middle of the complex, where two women in flowing white dresses are holding trays of something orange and fruity-looking with tiny umbrellas poking out from the glass. Another woman with long, dark hair comes forward with a smile, wearing a much more complicated dress than the other two. It's her that greets Arthur when he alights from his golf cart, smiling charmingly up at him. "Arthur," she says graciously. "Welcome back." 

"Very good to see you again, Guinevere," Arthur returns. "Thank you for your hospitality." 

"Nonsense. The Lady is happy to accommodate the Kingsmen," she answers, peering over at Lucas curiously. "Although I don't think I know this one…?" 

"Soon-to-be Lancelot. Very long story." 

With a start, the realization sinks in: he's done it. With Taeyong in Avalon’s ranks, there's no other choice for Lancelot.

There’s a hand on his shoulder—Arthur, who’s smiling at him in encouragement. “You deserve it, Lucas. We Kingsmen, we value loyalty.” A cursory glance towards Percival, who nods. “Taeyong failed that test. You are a much more deserving candidate than he is.”

“I appreciate that, sir.” Lucas nods curtly, trying not to make the recent realization of Arthur's being in the same position as him too apparent. “He’ll answer for all that he’s done.”

Guinevere, who’s been listening intently, cocks her head towards the orange drinks. “It looks like you’ve been through quite a lot,” she says in sympathy. “There are refreshments if you want them, while you prepare for your meeting with the Lady.” 

Gawain snatches a glass up.

“You’ll need to make yourselves… presentable,” Guinevere continues, eyes skimming over Lucas and his sleepwear. “You’ll find clothes and other necessities in your assigned rooms. Please feel free to explore the resort, as well; we don’t get many guests during the Christmas season. I trust that everything will be to your liking.”

“Thank you again, Gwen. We’ll take it from here.”

The other Kingsmen start to shed their suit jackets under the heat of the sun, but Lucas, comfortable in his silk pyjamas, can only feel the ocean breeze. The place is absolute paradise—white sand, clear blue water, red-roofed cabanas littered across the shore. Just like Guinevere said, the resort is empty; they're unimpeded as they're led to the largest building in the area, a two-floor cabin with large, teakwood double doors. 

Lucas’s room is at the very end of the building, floor-to-ceiling windows providing a clear view of the tropical forest at the edge of the resort. Even Bella seems pleased, trotting about the room and letting out the occasional happy bark; Lucas sets his meagre belongings down on the dresser and heads straight to the shower.

It’s only when he steps out that he realizes that the closet contains an expansive selection of linen shirts and khaki pants, none of which are fit for a meeting. Luckily for him, Gawain is at his door, brandishing a garment bag and a pair of Oxfords with a smile. “I almost forgot,” he says, pushing the bag towards him. “Galahad had me pick this up before the gala. I think you'll like it.”

Lucas pulls the zipper down to reveal a suit, impeccably done with pinstripes running down the length of it. Smiling, Lucas runs a hand over the fabric. “It's wonderful.”

“I’ll leave you to get changed.” Gawain excuses himself, leaving Lucas to wonder at the gift. Bella watches patiently as he gets dressed, more and more emboldened with every piece of the suit he puts on.

The man in the full-length mirror looks different. He _feels_ different, finding himself standing straighter, more poised than he ever was. Like the suit itself is armour, almost, protecting him from more than just mere physical harm.

Even the other Kingsmen in their own perfectly tailored suits seem impressed when they gather in the lobby, eyeing Lucas with approval.

Merlin smiles, looking much like a proud father. “Looking great, Lucas.”

“Feeling great, Merlin,” Lucas returns with a grin.

Guinevere leads them to a door behind the concierge, where an elevator plunges them deep into the earth, reminiscent of the fitting room in the tailor shop. The elevator doors open to what looks to be an antechamber with steel-grey walls and a foreboding vault door, a pair of benches lining the length of the room.

“You may enter when you’re ready,” Guinevere advises them. Arthur is the first to step off, and they all follow suit; the elevator ascends, and Arthur makes to move toward the vault doors.

“Arthur?” Merlin calls. “Our newest recruit.”

“Ah, yes.” Arthur snaps his fingers, turning to Lucas with a smile. “Only Kingsmen are allowed in the meeting room with the Lady. Forgive me for the… expedited procedure,” he says apologetically. “Welcome to Kingsman, Lancelot.”

His eyes widen, but Lucas nods, accepting Arthur’s handshake. “Thank you, sir.”

“Here, to complete your outfit.” Arthur deposits a small black case with the Kingsman symbol embossed on the top into Lucas’s hands. 

He pries the lid open; inside, resting on a bed of red velvet, is a pair of square tortoiseshell glasses. “Wicked,” he murmurs, taking the glasses out of the case and putting them on.

Green panels flicker into his vision, showing his heartbeat, oxygen level, and other vitals. A line of text appears above Arthur: **BAEKHYUN BYUN. CODENAME: ARTHUR** **.** The same pops up around the other Kingsmen, stating their birth names along with their code names. Overwhelmed, Lucas presses a finger to the hinge just as he has seen Mark do, and the green panels disappear.

There are many ways he imagined this moment to come—they would be in the mansion, Taeyong would be shaking his hand, Mark would congratulate him with one of those endlessly charming smiles. The achievement feels empty without his mentor.

“Dolly,” he gasps. When the other Kingsmen stare, he continues, “Someone needs to feed Dolly. Galahad's dog?”

“Dog-sitter on retainer,” Merlin reassures him. “God forbid Dolly ever starve.”

“Oh,” Lucas sighs in relief.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but not without mirth. “Everyone ready?” When they nod their affirmation, he stands in front of the vault door, removing his glasses. A beam of green light scans his retina, and the locks in the door grind against each other, finally allowing it to roll aside, revealing a cavernous room.

The first thing that Lucas notices is the far wall seemingly made out of pure magma, oranges and yellows swirling in a mesmerising pattern behind glass. A round table sits in the middle of the room atop a raised dais; behind it is a woman wearing an elegant caped white dress that brushes the floor, standing serenely as though she had been there since the beginning of time. 

“Welcome, Kingsmen. Come closer so that I may see you.”

As though compelled by an external force, the five of them do as she says, heels clicking on the tile. The closer they get, the more her face comes into view; she’s possibly the most beautiful woman Lucas has ever seen, hooded eyelids glittering with carefully applied eyeshadow, lips painted the perfect shade of pink to complement her dress. 

If anyone were to be the Lady, this would be her.

The Kingsmen gather around the table, looking at the Lady expectantly. Lucas finds himself directly across her, almost shrinking under her scrutiny, but she seems to be satisfied with what she sees, clasping her hands together to address all of them. “Firstly, I would like to express my remorse for the destruction of the Kingsman headquarters. Our other branches worldwide are pooling resources so that you may restore your base to operant conditions.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Arthur says graciously. “But I think we’ll rest easier if we face our enemy.”

“That is why I called you here.” She looks directly at Lucas then, curling a finger upward. “Closer, Lancelot. I believe it is time you learned about Project Excalibur. The full extent of it.”

Gulping, Lucas steps onto the dais. He’s not quite eye level with the Lady, but still, he feels small.

“Glasses on, please, gentlemen.” She gestures to the table and it comes to life, glowing a ghostly green. “Your mother, before the mission that destroyed the Avalon facility, created a failsafe should the operation go awry,” the Lady explains. A hologram of what looks like a memory stick appears above the table. “Project Excalibur, as she called it, is a software that enables the trackers on the Avalon agents to emit a signal that can control the minds of everyone within a certain radius, including the agents themselves.” The memory stick disappears, replaced by the grainy image of a man sleeping in what looks to be a padded cell. Unprompted, the man bolts upright, flying into a rage—banging on the walls, tearing his hair out, a proper fit. 

“The first and only copy was with her,” the Lady continues. The video fizzles out, thank God. “Not even I have it. But somehow, Morgana must have recovered it for her own use. Thankfully, the software is well-encrypted, and we have found no evidence of her having used it.”

“That’s why she’s targeting you, Lancelot,” Arthur surmises. “She thinks you can decrypt it somehow.”

“Only that I didn’t even know my mother was a Kingsman,” Lucas counters.

Percival shakes his head. “ _She_ doesn’t know that.”

“Correct. There is a possibility that she already knows what Excalibur is for—to let her use it to its full potential…” the Lady trails off.

“She can expand her operations,” Merlin continues for her. “Transactions in plain sight—not even the authorities would care because they will be manipulated as well.”

The Lady nods gravely. “You must strike while the iron is hot. I would suggest targeting her most trusted men, weakening her from the inside.” Headshots of two men appear atop the table. “There are two in particular that she trusts: the Red and White Knights, they're called, and they head two of Avalon's most important operations. The White Knight commands every security system in their hold. To take him down would be to make all of their properties vulnerable. The Red Knight handles the more… unsavoury practices in the company.”

“Torture and extortion, in short,” Arthur finishes. 

Merlin chuckles. “Looking a wee bit pale there, Lancelot.” 

“Worry not, agent.” The Lady smiles at him, and in some strange way, it makes him feel better. “I have it on good authority that both men are currently in Wales, guarding both Excalibur and Galahad. It's the perfect opportunity.”

“Understood.” Arthur turns to them, all business. “Percival, Lancelot—make the necessary preparations. Merlin and Gawain will pilot. You leave at dawn tomorrow.”

Lucas’s stomach drops, but he nods along with the others, unwilling to crumble under Arthur’s gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good, Arthur. I always liked your initiative,” the Lady remarks, pleased. “It’s a big day tomorrow—all of you need rest. Oh, and feel free to help yourself to our amenities,” she adds with a genial smile. “Enjoy your stay at Camelot Resort and Spa.”

* * *

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It's not the most eloquent thought Mark has had, but it's the only one running through his mind as he surveys the Red Knight pacing across the room, crimson suit glaring bright against his tired eyes, twirling his twin knives in both hands. They've left the overhead lights on overnight—a torture Mark never thought he would endure, but alas. Getting starved and periodic beatings, he could take; a night without complete darkness and silence as he tried to sleep, well. He has to give that to the Red Knight—he's very good at his job.

Unfortunately for Mark, the only way out of the room is the door that the Knight is currently guarding. He's checked: no vents, no hidden passages, just the Red Knight's watchful eye. The White Knight's, as well—the tiny security cameras installed in every corner of the room remind him of that, only visible if he tilts his head just so that the lense reflect the glare of those goddamn overhead lights.

A crackling sound permeates the stagnant air in the room—the speakers that the White Knight is connected to, so that he and his colleague can speak. “Movement detected on the radar. Possibly a Kingsman aircraft.”

Mark's eyes fly wide open. The Red Knight is grinning, shoving a knife back into a sheath on his belt. “Well, well.” His voice grates against Mark's ears, and he moves closer, crouching in front of him to tilt his head up with the blade of his knife. “Your friends are coming for you. I'll make sure that we give them a warm welcome.”

Mark spits on the Red Knight’s shoe. Affronted, the man stands up and hits him square on the jaw with the handle of his knife, sending him sprawling across the floor. It smarts like a bitch, but he makes sure not to move or even make a noise—there's no point in showing weakness, even though his heart is pounding in his chest a mile a minute. Who would be on the mission? Percival or Gawain? If Lucas is somehow there— 

The Red Knight interrupts his train of thought with a well-placed kick to his ribs. Now this, he can't ignore; he curls up on his side, only a little, for the Knight's sadistic benefit. He huffs, crushing his foot against Mark's head. “Impertinent little fuck,” he growls. Kneeling, he places his lips right next to Mark's ear, breath stirring his hair and making gooseflesh rise across his neck. “It's a pity we still need you alive, or you'd have joined your parents sooner.”

Much as he would like to scream, throw a fit, show any indication of malcontent, he keeps still.

“What a waste,” the Red Knight tuts. “I like it when they fight back.”

Mark keeps his head down, waiting for the sound of the Red Knight’s shoes to dissipate. Breathing heavily, he straightens himself, leaning against the wall. All he can do is wait for them to come and hope that they’ve brought him an extra gun.

* * *

  
  


#  **DECEMBER 2020. WALES, UNITED KINGDOM.**

Courtesy of Camelot’s extensive amenities, their Gulfstream has been swapped out for a sleek Learjet, with upholstered cream-coloured seats and a side table laden with expensive wines. Not like Lucas would have reached for them, anyway—he always got anxious when he would get pissed, and with the way his nerves are getting away from him, pouring out a Chardonnay would do more harm than good.

"Alright there, Lancelot?" Percival asks right across him, swirling a glass of brandy.

Lucas nods, smoothing his hands over the pants of his suit. "Been worse, to be honest."

"You look like you're about to piss yourself," Percival remarks. "Chin up, yeah? First day on the job. Don't doubt your qualifications."

"It's not _that_ I'm doubting, to be honest."

"Galahad, then?" Hesitantly, Lucas nods. Percival reaches across to brace a hand on his shoulder. “We'll get him out,” he says with a comforting smile. “If anyone can, it's us.”

"Agents," Merlin announces over the intercom. "Ready for drop-off."

“Good luck!” Gawain adds with a dainty laugh.

"Duty calls," Percival sighs, setting his glass down. "Come, then, Lancelot. You're lucky you only had to parachute on the first day."

"Lucky?" Lucas echoes.

"Have you ever swam with sharks?" Percival says dryly, pulling his parachute bag on.

"Can't say I have," Lucas responds, doing as the other agent is. "But you _have_ to tell me the story now."

"Maybe someday." Percival secures a pair of goggles over his head. They grab onto the handles above their heads just as the hatch embedded in the rear of the jet opens, almost knocking Lucas back with a forceful gust of wind. "Gotta jump, first. I'll let you do the honours."

Lucas shoots him a dirty look, which the agent simply grins at. Taking a deep breath, he jumps, letting a scream rip from his throat as he goes.

Vaguely, in between the sound of the wind whipping past his ears as he gets closer and closer to the ground, he can hear Percival howling with laughter. Lucas looks up to see him doing cartwheels in the air, then stretching himself out spread-eagle, eyes trained on the ground.

"Having fun?" Lucas yells.

"Never better!" Percival responds with a laugh. He starts pulling out parts from his bag, assembling his rifle with a finesse that someone free-falling from the atmosphere shouldn't have. "Stay put. I don't want to have to accidentally snipe you when we're close to the radar."

"I'll make sure to stay out of your way, then."

They're close enough to the ground to see the lighthouse—a tall, white cylinder with a red dome, much like someone had left a chess piece in the middle of the grey sand beach. Percival nods, and they both pull at their drogues, the force of their parachutes opening pulling them upwards before settling into the slow descent they need.

Percival hefts his sniper rifle up, looking through the sights. "See anything?" Lucas calls out, and Percival frowns, setting the gun down with disappointment.

"It's deserted."

"Maybe they're not home?" Lucas quips hopefully.

"Or they're expecting you," Merlin answers, voice crackling in their earpieces. "On high alert, agents."

"Roger that, Merlin."

They land in the middle of a cornfield, affording them enough concealment to stash their parachutes in the two-meter tall stalks tickling every exposed bit of Lucas's body. Sighing, Percival disassembles his rifle, stuffing the parts back in his bag. "Well. Suppose we'll have to knock on the front door, then?"

"Here's hoping it's as simple as that," Lucas mutters. "Merlin's right. They should have more security than this. Maybe they're waiting for the right moment?"

"Or they want you alive," Merlin answers. "They think Lancelot has the key to unlocking Excalibur, after all."

"Somehow, that's not much of a comfort."

"Radar's detecting just a few guards by the entrance of the lighthouse. All armed, but they're not moving. It almost looks like they're waiting for you."

"It's rude to keep them waiting, don't you think?" Percival says with a smirk. "Let's go. I don't much like the idea of Galahad rooming with these people."

The sound of crunching soil interrupts their plans of wading through the corn stalks. Lucas and Percival immediately pull their pistols out, pointing them towards the offending sound—some sort of vehicle coming closer and closer, clearing a path through the crops.

A buggy comes to a stop in front of them, carrying only three people within it. Most noteworthy is a man in an impeccable white suit, smiling at them in a genial manner. Lucas immediately dislikes him, dragging the sight of his gun over to the man's forehead.

"There's no need for hostility, agents," the man says, customer-service smile never leaving his face. The two men in the car with him—guards, Lucas presumes, judging by the Armalites strapped across their backs—are impassive. The man in the white suit steps off with the assistance of an ivory walking stick, grinning at them widely. "Welcome to our humble abode. I'm sure you have questions for us, as we do for you."

"The White Knight," Percival acknowledges with a raise of his brow. "Yes, I assume you do. I'll go first: what's keeping us from scattering your brains out on this lovely patch of land?"

The White Knight laughs, a too-loud sound, artificial just like the fabric he's wearing. "We have something you want, do we not?" he says knowingly, presenting a device in the palm of his hand—a tablet showing the feed from a security camera.

Mark. Knelt on the floor with his hands tied behind his back, but still alive. Lucas exhales through his nose, chest heaving ever so slightly, but it doesn't escape the White Knight's notice.

“Galahad has been an ever so charming guest.” The White Knight smiles right at him. “If you want to see him live through the day, well... I believe it is in our best interest if you cooperate, yes?”

Percival meets his eyes. The older agent's gaze is steely, unyielding—but he's also looking to Lucas for guidance. _Your mission,_ he's saying.

Swallowing, Lucas lowers his gun, and Percival follows.

“Take us to him,” Lucas demands.

If possible, the White Knight's grin grows even wider. “Excellent.”

♕

The lighthouse is actually quite beautiful, Lucas is forced to admit. The White Knight, very obligingly, guides them up the set of spiral stairs, leading them to a cylindrical room covered with windows and enclosed by a balcony that overlooks the sea. Inside the room is an antique French tea table upon which a set of china sits, accompanied by a tray of scones and biscuits.

“Lovely,” Percival mutters.

“Isn’t it?” the White Knight beams, gesturing to the chairs. Stiffly, Lucas slides into one of them. “We had to divest the whole thing from this cumbersome group of historians. Stubborn lot, them,” the White Knight continues conversationally, pouring tea out into three cups. The gaudy jewel at the end of his walking stick reflects light straight into Lucas’s eyes. “Can’t be bought out. Milk and sugar?”

“Two cubes and some lemon,” Lucas pipes up. Percival glares at him.

“It’s perfectly safe to drink, I assure you. I’m not so base as that,” the White Knight laughs. “Why, if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t do it myself!”

“Ah, yes, your partner,” Percival recalls dourly, accepting his cup. “Is he joining us?”

The White Knight hums, stirring cream and a small handful of sugar into his tea. “My partner would join me, but he seems to be… occupied,” he finishes with another unsettling smile. “Now, to business. I can assure you that Galahad is well taken care of.”

Percival snorts. “By your partner, I’m assuming.”

“Hospitality _is_ his area of expertise, after all. What we’re interested in, though, is your newest agent.” The White Knight turns to Lucas, still smiling, fingers steepled in a careful display of curiosity. “Spitting image of your mother, you are. Followed in her footsteps, too.”

“I’m honoured to.”

“I wouldn’t be quite so sure about that,” the Knight muses. “But that’s not what we’re here to talk about—Excalibur. Now, I have it on good authority that you didn’t know anything about Kingsman before Galahad recruited you…” Lucas almost baulks at the mention of Mark, but the White Knight is watching him closely, scanning for weakness. He manages another sip of his tea. “We believe that, sure. But you must have some idea as to the import of your mother's little project, as well as how to use it.

Lucas shrugs flippantly. “I’m just as clueless as you are.”

“Liar!” The White Knight slams his fist onto the table. The action makes the china set on the table rattle, and the guards around them raise their weapons. 

The Knight pulls something out of his breast pocket—a memory stick. Percival's eyes widen imperceptibly, unmoving from the little stick of metal in the White Knight's grasp. “You _will_ tell me how to decrypt Project Excalibur,” he warns lowly, pointing the memory stick directly under Lucas's nose. “Or you will watch Agent Galahad perish.”

“I told you. I know nothing.”

“Very well then.” Quicker than lighting, the White Knight picks up his walking stick and twists the handle. The ivory shaft extends, revealing a blade at its tip, but before he can do anything with it Lucas throws his scalding cup of tea onto the man’s face.

His scream is punctuated by the sound of AR-15 magazines being emptied. Lucas and Percival dive under the table, covering themselves to protect against the spray of bullets and shattered glass. “Well done, Lancelot!” Percival laughs, pulling his pistol out of his pocket. “You're mental.”

“I’ll get these guards to fuck off, then look for Galahad,” Lucas suggests to Percival. “You take Mr Sunshine over there.”

Percival grins, hefting his gun up. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

The heel of a leather shoe appears right in Lucas's line of sight, flipping the table off of them with one powerful kick. Before them appears an enraged White Knight, hair drenched and suit stained brown. 

Lucas dives forward to avoid the White Knight’s bladed cane, stabilizing himself after his roll to take a chair by its legs and swing it into a guard's stomach. With one smooth movement of his hand, he pulls out his own pistol, embedding a bullet into another guard's neck—only two more left.

One of them panicks and misfires a round, shattering even more glass. Lucas tuts, wrapping the strap of the guard's gun around his neck and using it as leverage to throw the man through a somehow unscathed panel of glass and past the railing of the balcony. The guard screams as he falls, leaving only one cowering behind his gun. He tries to take aim and fire, but the clip is empty.

Lucas takes pity on him and socks the poor fucker across the face. Behind him, Percival is having the time of his life, pirouetting just out of reach of the White Knight’s blade. He breaks off a leg from the overturned table and strikes it against the White Knight’s temple; the wood splinters, and the Knight staggers back, blood running down his cheek.

“Percival!”

“I can take him! You look for Galahad.”

“Good luck!” Lucas yells, making a mad dash for the set of stairs. “Fuck,” he swears, peeking down the spiral that’ll take him down five floors.

Lucas checks the face of his watch, turning a dial so that it’s set on "CABLE”. Aiming it towards the stair rails, a sheet of metal attached to a cable shoots out from the watch, unfolding into a grappling hook and wrapping itself around one of the rails. He quickly makes the sign of the cross and jumps off, letting his weight carry him down the height of the lighthouse.

Two guards are waiting for him below, now alerted to his presence. 

Using the momentum from his swing to jump off, he lands squarely on the chest of a Kevlar-outfitted guard. His head cracks on the floor of the lighthouse, and Lucas ducks just in time to avoid gunfire from another one. He drives, yanking the gun out of the dead guard's hand, and with a pull of the trigger and a splatter of grey matter on the stone wall, the other guard is dispatched, too.

“Sorry, mate,” Lucas winces. He grabs the gun off one of the guards, pilfering the remaining ammo from the other. “Merlin, any idea how I can get to Galahad?” he asks, slinging the rifle across his back.

“I can detect the signal from Galahad’s glasses underground,” Merlin answers into his earpiece. “Keep looking and there should be a hatch of some sort that’ll lead you there.”

There’s a Persian rug strewn somewhat haphazardly on the floor, now ruined with blood and bits of brain. Lucas peels it aside, fully expecting a trap door straight out of a horror movie—but there’s only smooth, if not a little old, linoleum.

He straightens up to inspect the rest of the room. Aside from the ancient gas fireplace, there’s nothing else of note. Opening the grate, he peers inside; the back of the fireplace is completely obscured by soot, and he rubs some of it away to reveal the same sword on the Avalon men engraved into the metal.

Lucas traces the sword with a soot-covered finger. The floor beneath him rumbles, and a slab of linoleum sinks further into the ground, pulling itself aside to reveal a ladder and an underground room.

Dusting his hands off, Lucas climbs down. Directly across him, embedded into the wall, is a set of sliding steel doors. “What is it with you lot and underground elevators?” Lucas mutters to himself.

He presses the “down” button, pointing his rifle at the elevator doors—but when they slide open, there’s not one soul inside.

Hesitantly, he steps into the elevator, letting it carry him deeper underground until a melodic _ding_ announces his arrival. The room that the elevator doors open to is cramped, more of a bunker than anything else, almost empty save for someone in a navy blue suit, jacket thrown aside leaving only a waistcoat and a button-up shirt.

“Mark!” Lucas gasps. He rushes over to where Mark is handcuffed to a metal rail bolted into the wall, and Mark looks up, smiling wanly at him. “Thank God you're not dead.” 

“Like Rapunzel in her tower,” Mark rasps. “Here comes my prince.”

“Knight, actually. And we’re technically in a basement, so…” Lucas makes quick work of Mark’s handcuffs, picking at the lock with the fountain pen in his front pocket. Before he can check himself, he lunges forward to envelop Mark in his arms. After a harrowingly long second, Mark returns the embrace, circling his arms around Lucas’s waist. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mark says into his neck. “I love the suit. You somehow look more amazing than usual.”

“You’ve seen better days,” Lucas jokes, pulling away and inspecting Mark. There’s something different about him, then it clicks—Mark’s glasses lie in a broken pile next to his discarded suit jacket. 

Lucas procures a new pair from his inner pocket, and Mark accepts it with thanks, sliding them on and sighing. “Ah, feeling better already.”

“Welcome back, Galahad,” Merlin says through their network. “Lancelot, you'll need to get out before the Red Knight finds you.”

“Lancelot?” Mark asks with a smile, turning to Lucas in surprise. 

“Promoted by default,” Lucas shrugs. “Taeyong works for Avalon. Long story.”

“Ah.” Mark nods, although still looking confused. “Well, I'd hate to see the Red Knight again, so we better get moving. Lead the way.”

“But—you're my mentor,” Lucas stammers pathetically.

Mark shakes his head. “No, Lancelot. I'm your equal.”

Lucas is fully prepared to melt into a puddle and re-form again, but he catches Mark’s eyes hardening at something behind him.

“Well, well,” a dark, grating voice says. “What do we have here?”

Mark scowls, and Lucas turns around to see who’s interrupted them—a man in a suit, mirroring the one the White Knight is wearing, only in deep crimson. A walking stick is replaced by two long knives, one in each hand. His stance is arrogant, and so is his gait, each step he takes towards them dripping with malice.

“What a touching reunion,” the Red Knight continues with a sadistic smile. “So similar, both of you—Kingsmen, orphaned.” He twirls the twin knives in his hands. “Soon to be dead.”

“Awfully confident of you,” Lucas responds.

“Do you hear that?” the Red Knight asks, pointing a knife upwards. “That's the sound of my partner thrashing your friend. And soon, you'll follow in his footsteps—but you don't have to, if you would just comply.”

Mark huffs indignantly. “I'm afraid we never will.”

“Tch,” the Red Knight tuts, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “We could have handled all of this civilly... what a pity.”

“Just as civilly as when you burnt my mother to a crisp,” Lucas sneers. “Let's not lie to each other.”

“Alright, then. I'll give you a taste of the truth.” The Red Knight circles them, cruel eyes dragging over their features with disdain. “Your mother burnt _herself_ to a crisp. Willingly took her own life to finish a mission and left wee little you to fend for yourself.”

“She did the right thing,” Lucas bristles.

“Not by you,” the Red Knight sneers. “Or do you deny what you suffered when you were young, being dragged from foster home to foster home? Trying to get by with what little money you had? We know everything about you, Lucas Wong,” he finishes with a smirk. “Courtesy of our special friend, whom you were so foolish to trust.”

“I suggest you close your mouth now, sir, before you say something you’ll regret,” Mark warns him.

“Oh, how could I forget!” the Red Knight laughs. “Little Mark Lee… I remember your parents. Only good for, well—hauling the goods. It’s a pity you grew up as useless as them. And just as disposable, too.”

Lucas fires a round from his rifle. To their surprise, the bullets glance off the Red Knight's chest, ricocheting into the bunker walls. 

The Knight laughs again as they stare in disbelief. “We all have our fair share of damage from that fire your upstart mother caused. Me, well—” he shrugs, looking down where the bullet holes have torn into his jacket and shirt, revealing dented grey metal. “Let's just say I'm made of tougher stuff now.”

“Wonderful,” Mark responds coolly, breaking off the metal rail he was cuffed to and hefting it in his hand. “I like a challenge.”

Mark lunges towards the Red Knight. Steel clangs against metal, the Red Knight’s knives forming an X as he pushes back onto Mark’s metal bar. Mark twists his arm to free his weapon, the force of it enough to make both of them stumble back—neither of them back off, however, the clash of metal echoing in the tiny bunker. 

Lucas aims his AR-15 at the Knight’s head in hopes of landing a hit, but Mark is too close, moving too quickly for Lucas to get a clear shot without injuring him, too. “Galahad! Catch!” he warns, tossing his pistol in an arc. Mark catches it with his left hand, aiming it at the Red Knight’s head.

The Knight deflects the incoming bullets with the flat of his blades, Lucas narrowly dodging one of them. Grinning, the Red Knight brandishes both knives, twirling them in his hands. “Still haven’t learned anything, have you?” he sneers.

Mark attempts to throw a punch, but the Knight catches him in a grip, bringing his forearm down on the metal rail to disarm him. Lucas fires a round from the rifle, grazing the Knight’s arm; he screams, one of the knives falling from his hands, and Mark dives down to grab it and stick it out in front of him.

“Need any help?” Lucas suggests.

“Stay out of this!” Mark orders, lunging towards the Knight once again. Lucas can barely follow the whirlwind of blades, the punches and blows being thrown, but he does notice when the Red Knight cuts across Mark’s jaw, making him draw back and pant in aggravation.

“I think you should listen to your boyfriend,” he teases. 

Incensed, Mark takes off in a run, feinting a stab at the Knight’s jugular to trap his knife arm, slashing at the Knight’s wrist with the edge of his blade and pulling him by the arm to flank him. The Red Knight is quick to react, elbowing Mark in the chin, attempting to slash at his throat—it’s a narrow miss, Mark stumbling back. 

They’re interrupted by an announcement, seemingly coming from hidden speakers embedded in the room: “Security system activated.” A siren blares deafeningly loud, red lights harsh against Lucas’s eyes.

“Changmin!” the Red Knight cries, holding his bloodied wrist. “You’ll pay for this, Kingsmen.”

“Lancelot, Galahad!” Percival warns into their earpieces. “I’ve activated the security systems, you need to find cover!”

“Come on!” Lucas grabs Mark by the arm, diving into the small antechamber that leads to the bunker and slamming the door shut behind him. The scream of agony inside is drowned out by the sound of hundreds and hundreds of bullets, loud enough to make them clap their hands over their ears.

Eventually, the machine guns run out of ammo, and the ringing silence is filled by Lucas staring at Mark in bewilderment.

“That was one way to get out of there,” Mark mutters under his breath. “Thanks for the warning, Percival.”

“Don’t get smart with me yet. Reinforcements are coming, so you need to get the _fuck_ out of there,” Percival retorts. “I’ve already gone with Merlin.”

“Transport is waiting for you right outside, I’ll send you the coordinates to the plane,” Merlin adds.

Lucas frantically mashes the elevator button until it opens, squeezing in with Mark following suit. Both of them are breathing heavily, leaning against opposite walls of the elevator in an attempt to recover themselves. Mark laughs, throwing his forearm over his eyes. “ _Fuck_ that guy. I only wish I had seen the body.”

“You sick fuck,” Lucas reprimands.

“ _You_ try sleeping in a room with white overhead lights, Lancelot.” Mark fishes something out of his waistcoat pocket—a tin of Curiously Strong Mints. He pops one of them into his mouth and sighs, tipping his head back against the elevator wall.

“Galahad,” Lucas says in disbelief, “I don’t really think this is the time for mints.”

“On the contrary, Lancelot.” Still holding his gun in his right hand, Mark clutches at Lucas's tie with his left, pulling him down and kissing him. 

He can feel the butt of Mark’s gun resting against the nape of his neck, but who gives a shit— _Mark Lee_ is kissing him. Lucas pulls him closer by the waist, returning the kiss with fervour; Mark tastes overwhelmingly of peppermint, but Lucas can’t find it in himself to care, thanking whoever at M&S thought of those bloody mints. 

“Reinforcements waiting outside the elevator doors, you oughta know,” Merlin grumbles.

Mark breaks away with a roll of his eyes. Without missing a beat, Mark reaches into Lucas’s pocket, takes out his lighter, and flips it open. When the elevator doors slide apart, he flings it through the small opening, punches the close button, and crosses his arms. 

A deafening explosion shatters the base of the lighthouse. When the smoke clears and the elevator doors open again, there are bodies on the scorched linoleum.

“Fuck,” Lucas enthuses. “Can I kiss you again?”

“Only after we get out of this alive.”

“Transport is right by the beach,” Merlin reminds them. 

Stepping out of the lighthouse, they blink up at the waning sunlight that blankets the surrounding sand. In the sky are about three armed helicopters, and none of them look like they’re Kingsman property.

“That’s our cue, then.” Lucas seizes Mark’s wrist and they make a mad dash for the beach, where a sleek black and white jet ski is waiting for them.

Mark gapes. “Merlin! You didn’t say transport was a _jet ski!”_

“Quit whinging and get on!”

Lucas jumps onto the watercraft, Mark climbing in behind him when he pats the back of the seat. “Do you even know how to drive this thing?” Mark says doubtfully, watching him fiddle with the controls.

“Can't be much different than a bike…” Lucas mutters, shoving in the key. 

“How the fuck does this come remotely close to a _bike?”_

“Big red button is probably start. Normal, reverse, forward—got it.” The whirring of helicopter blades grows louder, stirring up sand from the beach. “Shit! Hold on!”

Lucas revs up the engine, gripping both handlebars and praying to whoever will listen that he doesn’t plunge Mark to an untimely watery death. He changes the gear to forward, and the jet ski actually moves, Mark grabbing onto his waist with a yelp.

Grinning, Lucas presses on the throttle, and the jet ski pitches forward, cutting through water and gaining incredible speed. The helicopters are all but gone now, lost in the sound of the engine, Lucas’s laughter, and the sensation of Mark pressed up against his back.

#  **DECEMBER 2020. MAMANUCA ISLANDS, FIJI.**

The moment that Camelot Resort and Spa comes into view of the Learjet, Mark’s jaw drops. He leans over to get a better look at the beach and the cabanas, nose almost pressed against the glass in wonderment.

“You’re lucky there aren’t any flies in a plane, Galahad,” Percival laughs. 

Mark shakes his head, pulling away from the window with a sheepish smile. “When you told me we would be going to HQ, I didn’t expect _this.”_

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Lucas grins.

“Understatement,” Mark gushes. “Makes me wish I was part of Camelot.”

Lucas snorts at that, sinking back further into his cashmere seat. “No. You’d miss your opera and your records.”

“All true. You know me too well,” Mark answers, smiling coyly up at him.

Lucas returns the gesture with his own pleased smirk. “I try, Galahad.”

Percival groans, getting up from his seat with a dramatic flourish. “Gawain, they’re _flirting,”_ he whines, opening the door to the cockpit and slamming it shut. 

They land the plane in the same forest clearing, driverless golf carts eliciting such a bewildered expression from Mark that it makes Merlin laugh. He gapes as they pull into the beach, almost jumping out of the cart before it stops in his excitement.

Mark kicks his shoes off. The socks come next, and he sighs, digging his toes into the sand. “My god. Three-day old socks—I hope you’ll never have to experience that.”

Lucas pinches his nose in jest, and Mark pushes him with a bare foot, both of them laughing as they make their way to the main building.

Mark is given the adjacent room to Lucas’s. He can’t say that he’s much bothered by the arrangement—having Mark just across the hallway is a comfort after being parted from him this long. 

It becomes apparent that this arrangement has other benefits, because a knock on his door after a long shower snaps him to attention. Bella jumps up from where she’s dozing on the bed, barking madly at the door. 

“Bella, shush!” Lucas chastises, pulling up the other leg of his pyjamas and straightening himself out in the mirror to at least look presentable.

He opens the door to an amused Mark, dressed in the same white silk sleepwear. “Interrupting something?” he teases, stepping into the room. He laughs when Bella leaps off the bed, crouching down and hugging her to his chest, scrunching his face up adorably when she tries to lick him. “Hello, Bella. It’s good to see you.”

“She was worried about you,” Lucas coughs, closing the door behind him.

“I bet she was,” Mark says knowingly, scratching beneath Bella’s chin to calm her down. “Ah, I miss Dolly.”

“Do you _really_ have a dog-sitter on retainer?”

“Dolly will starve over my dead body,” Mark deadpans. “Not even then.”

Lucas chuckles, kneeling beside Mark and crossing his legs. Frowning, he leans forward to peer at Mark’s face, tilting his head to the side to better inspect the gash on his jaw. “Woah.” Mark pulls away, brows raised. “Not with your dog here.”

“It’s not that!” Lucas protests, blushing down to the roots of his hair. “You have a cut, right here. I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Mark questions, watching Lucas heave himself to his feet and rummage through the bathroom cabinets.

“I’ll have you know that I even beat out Taeyong when it comes to first aid,” Lucas answers. He settles down beside Mark again, pulling out an antiseptic wipe and running it along the length of Mark’s wound.

Mark doesn’t flinch, but he purses his lips, pulling Bella closer to him. “I heard about what happened from Merlin. I’m truly sorry about him, Lucas.”

“Thank you,” Lucas says softly. He can’t bring himself to meet Mark’s eyes, so he busies himself with applying the dressing to Mark’s wound. “I just… he was my only friend there, you know? Besides you, of course.”

Mark hums. “I’m still glad you looked out for each other. Even with everything that’s happened.”

Lucas sighs, leaning back on his haunches. “I feel like such a _git._ I defended him to the other recruits, and for what?”

Mark slides a hand over his, squeezing reassuringly. “You did the right thing. When you inevitably meet again, you’ll be secure in the knowledge that you’re on the right side.”

“But does Taeyong know that he’s on the wrong one?” Lucas counters, morose.

“What was it that Merlin said? He called Morgana his mother,” Mark reasons. “It’s difficult to cut family off.”

Lucas winces. “Yeah.”

“About what the Red Knight said…” Mark begins softly.

He shakes his head, picking at a loose thread on his pyjamas. “No, it’s fine. He was right. My mum didn’t do what was best for me.” Lucas inhales and tries for a smile. “But what matters is that I’m here now.”

“And you’re doing wonderfully,” Mark praises. “I knew you would fit right in.”

Lucas smiles at him, genuinely this time. “Thank you, Mark.” He stands up, brushing himself off and extending a hand for Mark to take. “It’s been a rough few days for you. You’ll need all the rest you can get.”

Mark takes his hand, letting Lucas help him up. “You'll not give me a lolly before I go, doctor?” he asks coquettishly.

Lucas barks out a laugh. “What sick fantasy is this?” Nonetheless, he leans forward to leave a kiss on Mark's uninjured cheek. “I hope that'll suffice.” 

“More than,” Mark grins. “Good night, Lucas.”

“Good night, Mark.”

The sound of Mark closing the door behind him echoes in the vacated room. Lucas sighs, gathering the first aid kit in his arms and shoving it into the bathroom cabinet. He flops face-first onto the bed, groaning long and low, and Bella jumps in after him, curling into his side.

He’s halfway asleep when a knock on the door wakes him up again. His frown disappears when he sees that it’s Mark, staring pensively up at him. “Mark?”

“Remember when we first met, and you asked me if I was trying it on with you?” Mark asks. “Ask me again.”

Lucas swallows thickly. “I... don't think I need to.”

“Always a fast learner.” Mark grabs him by the collar, capturing his lips in a heated kiss. Lucas pulls him into the room and kicks the door closed, guiding them towards the bed. There’s not much rest to be had tonight, it seems.

♕

Heaven must be like this, Lucas thinks—birdsong fluttering around in the early morning, the tropical forest right outside his window, and Mark fast asleep beside him under the covers. 

Lucas props himself up on one arm. Mark's back is turned to him, chest rising and falling with even breaths, knackered from the past three days. And last night, Lucas thinks smugly to himself.

He curls an arm around Mark's waist, pressing his lips against his bare shoulder, and Mark stirs, eyes fluttering open. “Where am I?” he asks groggily, turning to Lucas with lidded eyes. “Oh.” He shoves his face back into his pillow as though Lucas were nothing of note.

He pouts, nuzzling his nose into Mark's neck. “Good morning, beautiful.”

Mark snorts. “Use that often?”

“Not as often as I’d like. And never with the right person.”

“Oh, he's got the chat,” Mark chuckles. “Can't believe I'm hearing this from you of all people.”

“Meaning you've heard this from plenty of people?” Lucas questions. “In the same… circumstances?”

“I'm a spy, Lucas. It's what spies do.”

“I thought you were an agent?”

“The sanitized synonym to spy.” Mark shrugs his shoulder, crushing it against Lucas's nose, but he doesn't budge. “Are we going to move, or are you going to keep interrogating me and my methods?”

Lucas groans, clinging onto Mark like a koala. “Five more minutes.” 

Mark, the sadistic fucker that he is, counts down exactly to the second. “Well? Move it.”

“Join me in the shower?”

“If you can walk.”

“Dickhead.”

“Yeah, remember how you were choking on it last—”

“Alright, alright! I'm moving!” Lucas stumbles out of bed, limping towards the shower. Grinning, Mark lets him whine for a good few minutes before shoves off the sheets and joins him. 

♕

Coming down to breakfast together is an event in and of itself. The other Kingsmen are already waiting in the lobby, legs crossed on the rattan chairs and putting their newspapers down when Lucas and Mark arrive.

Percival is sporting a shit-eating grin. “Alright, Lancelot?”

Gawain simply high fives Mark, hooking their arms together as they gossip on their way to the breakfast room.

They sober up considerably when they're called to the Lady's offices by yet another white-clad woman, Percival staring longingly at the continental breakfast they have to depart from.

Merlin and Arthur are already at the table, the Lady's familiar white garb stationed in front of the swirling magma wall. She smiles graciously at them when they approach, but Merlin and Arthur look grim, eyeing the surface of the table with trepidation.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the Lady greets. “I trust you had a good rest?”

Percival coughs, wheezing when Mark elbows at his ribs.

“Right,” Merlin drawls. “To business."

As you know, Percival has recovered a copy of Excalibur from the White Knight. As it turns out, Morgana's hunch was correct—Lancelot is the key to decrypting the software.”

“I am?” Lucas says dumbly. “But how?”

Merlin waves a hand on the tabletop. A prompt for a handprint appears, along with a voice declaring, “DNA scan required.”

“Ah, of course.” Arthur shakes his head, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk. “Only _she_ could decrypt it. Or someone directly related to her that we had absolutely no knowledge of.”

“Well, Lancelot, give it a go,” Merlin urges. “Let's see if you _are_ your mother's wain, after all.”

Taking a deep breath, Lucas places his palm over the outline on the table. The screen glows as it scans his handprint, flashing a bright white as a synthetic voice announces, “Genetic identity confirmed. Use of Excalibur authorized. Greetings, Lancelot.”

A breadth of files appears in holograms before them, stacking on top of each other and saturating the air. The Lady's smile grows larger, eyes scanning the windows opening one by one. “Well done, Lancelot.”

“Only thing I’ve done is pop out of my mum’s fanny,” Lucas demurres, getting a slap on his arm from Mark in reproach. “But thanks.”

“‘Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of England,’” Merlin quotes. “Very good, Lancelot. Let’s see what we have.” He taps on a few more prompts on the surface of the table, frowning as he reads one of them.

“Well?” Arthur prompts, impatient.

“It requires an extremely powerful server to tap into the tattoo frequencies,” Merlin answers. “Controlling hundreds of men all over the globe... I have no doubt that this server already exists, and if so, that it's heavily guarded.”

“Hold on,” Lucas interrupts, scowling at Merlin. “We're not really thinking of doing what _Morgana_ wants to do?”

“I suppose you have an alternative?” the Lady questions.

Merlin steps aside, allowing Lucas to skim through the program. Everything fades out; it's only him and the computer in front of him, eyes darting from window to window in an attempt to digest the lines of code that his mother has created. It's robust, to be sure, but nothing that a few tweaks couldn't fix.

He types in a few adjustments to the code, fingers flying over the keyboard.

“Care to fill us in, Lancelot?” Arthur quips.

“What if we avoid controlling them completely?” Lucas posits, not daring to break his concentration. “What if, instead of making them even more slaves than they already are, we can free them?”

"What exactly are you saying?"

"I've coded a self-destruct function into the circuitry of the tattoos," Lucas explains. "When I say the word, the tattoos will lose all function—tracking, emitting frequencies, everything."

"Brilliant," Mark says in awe, and Lucas grins up at him, stepping back from the table and watching the code execute.

“Excalibur is a double-edged sword. ‘Heavy is the hand with the hilt,’” Arthur recites. “This is what she meant. That responsibility would fall to whoever has the program.” 

"It's lucky that we've recovered it for ourselves, then," the Lady states. "Merlin, do you know where this server might be? Is there anything else we've recovered from the White Knight?"

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Merlin pulls out his trusty clipboard, laying it flat on the table so a hologram of what looks like a castle takes form. “The files we’ve recovered place their main headquarters in an abandoned fortress in Turkey. The server we need to execute the program is most likely stationed there. Morgana is currently in this location, as well as someone named ‘Mordred.’”

“I'd bet my hat that's Taeyong,” Arthur mutters under his breath. “Very well, then. Let's hope it's not too late for him.”

"You still trust him?" Percival exclaims. "After what he's done to the headquarters?"

"Trusting someone and believing that they're capable of change are two very different things, Percival," Arthur retorts coolly. "Lancelot—you were his closest friend. If somehow you could make him see reason..."

"I want the same thing as you do, Arthur. But I'm not sure how much I can do," Lucas answers cautiously. "I'll try."

Arthur nods, ignoring the death glare that Percival is sending his way. "Thank you, Lancelot. Well, what are you lot staring at?" he directs to the rest of the Kingsmen. "It's a big day tomorrow—we're infiltrating Avalon."

#  **DECEMBER 2020. MERSIN PROVINCE, TURKEY.**

Guinevere, before their departure, gives Merlin the keys to a beautiful white Boston Whaler. Lucas had been more than thrilled to board the boat—Mark and Percival, not so much, but to him nothing could be more perfect than cruising through the Mediterranean in an impossibly fast speedboat, current mission notwithstanding.

Before long, a rocky island comes into view, the white-walled fortress jutting out from the earth contrasting with the colourful backdrop of the nearby city. From afar, it looks like an abandoned fortress; the closer they come, however, the men prowling the castle ramparts become visible, tiny black pinpoints that Gawain can probably see better with the binoculars he's peering through.

“Christ, but it’s beautiful,” Merlin mutters under his breath, shielding his eyes from the sunlight directly hitting the driver’s seat.

Gawain hums next to him, leaning over the bow to get a closer look. “Where does it rank on your top ten list of evil lairs?”

“Easily number seven. I mean it’s not very creative, like. A castle on an island…” Merlin muses. “It’s dramatic, I’ll give her that. But no higher than number six.”

“'M gonna be sick,” Percival grumbles, all the way from the stern of the boat. Mark rubs a sympathetic hand across his back. 

“Take a Dramamine, Percival, you'll be grand,” Merlin advises with a roll of his eyes. “See anything?”

“Unless you count a missile launcher on top of one of the bastions as something, then nothing,” Gawain replies dryly. “I hope you’re as good a sailor as you are a pilot, Merlin.”

“Hold onto your knickers, then.”

Percival groans. “Oh, fu—”

Even from this distance, Lucas can hear the blaring of an alarm, red lights flashing on the ramparts of the castle. Then, after a beat, the deafening _whoosh_ of a missile.

Merlin yanks the steering wheel to the left, making the boat swerve just in time to miss the projectile splashing into the water. The ensuing wave carries them closer to the castle, and Merlin floors it, aiming straight for one of the bastions. “They won’t be able to use the launcher at such close range!” Merlin yells over the roar of the engine. “Now’s your chance!”

Galahad is the first to leap off the boat, landing gracefully on the jagged rock with a front roll. Percival, Gawain, and Lucas follow, with much less success—but they can’t dwell too much on that, because uniformed guards are leaning over the ramparts, aiming their AK-47s at them.

“Scatter!” Gawain orders, and they do so, narrowly missing the assault of bullets that spray onto the rock beneath them.

Lucas hugs the wall, pulling out his pistol from its holster. Beside him, Mark lets out a breathless laugh. “Anything particularly _funny,_ Galahad?” he demands, aiming at a guard right above them.

“Just that you're shooting a gun, is all,” Mark replies without missing a beat, picking off three guards in succession with his own pistol.

Lucas fires, landing a hit on the guard's chest. He turns to Mark smugly as the guard falls over the wall, crashing pathetically onto the rock before rolling into the ocean.

“Alright, I'll give you that,” Mark acquiesces. “Any openings near our position?”

“Fifty paces southwest.”

“Lead the way.”

They inch closer and closer to a gap in the castle walls, Mark providing covering fire when Lucas misses. When they finally breach the fortress, bursting into the courtyard with Percival and Gawain, they're met with a comically large battalion of black-clad men, several of them hoisting rocket launchers on their shoulders.

“Motherfucker—”

They scatter into the hallways circling the courtyard, flattening themselves behind the pillars that cut through the interior of the castle. “They'll run out of ammo soon enough!” Percival yells, flinching away from the debris that a missile showers onto him when it hits a pillar. “You two look for the server. Gawain and I can handle this.”

“Better hurry,” Gawain advises, fiddling with a bottle of perfume. “This knockout gas won't discriminate.”

“Got it!”

Lucas runs along the length of the hallway with Mark following suit, ducking and dodging bullets and occasionally firing a few of his own. One of the guards manages to burst through the smoke from the gunfire and level a rifle at Mark; Lucas, filled with adrenaline, replaces his pistol ammo with a shotgun cartridge and fires straight at the guard's head.

Mark manages to step back far enough before the poor sod's head explodes onto the tile. They run side by side, Mark laughing again. “I'm definitely giving you that one.”

“God, we need to get you better coping mechanisms,” Lucas pants.

They come to a stop in front of a set of heavy oak double doors. “I don’t know about you, but that looks important,” Mark notes.

Lucas nods. “The server room.” They position themselves on both sides of the doorway, pushing a door each, immediately hoisting their guns towards the opening in anticipation of resistance. But they find none, looking at each other in confusion as they enter the room.

On the far wall is an arrangement of control panels surrounding a large monitor, whirring and beeping, red and green lights dancing across their surface. Their only hindrance is one man, standing atop a small set of stairs leading to the server—Taeyong.

He looks at ease in a midnight-black jacket cinched at the waist with a simple brown belt and tailored white trousers. Most remarkable, though, is the six-foot-tall weapon in his hand: a pole with a large, menacingly curved blade the size of two heads.

“Taeyong.” Lucas lowers his gun, but Mark does no such thing. In the periphery of Lucas’s vision, he’s still staring down the barrel of his pistol, forehead creased in a deep frown.

“Lucas.” Taeyong descends the stairs, using his weapon to guide him. It reminds Lucas of the White Knight, how he used his walking stick like an extension of his limb. The set of his jaw is reminiscent of the Red Knight, as well, almost cruel as he regards the two Kingsmen before him. Lucas wonders which parts of him reflect Morgana. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“I can’t say I feel the same,” Lucas answers with disdain. “Then again, I can’t say anyone will be pleased to see someone who betrayed them.”

Taeyong shrugs. “It’s all business, Lucas. Nothing personal.” His eyes slide over Mark, eyeing him up and down with a smirk. “Then again, maybe not… Wonderful to see you too, Galahad.”

“The pleasure is mine, Taeyong,” Mark replies sourly.

Lucas shakes his head, stepping in front of Mark. Taeyong raises his weapon in warning, but Lucas holsters his gun, putting both hands in the air. “Look, Taeyong—it’s not too late. I’ve seen what you can do, what Arthur has taught you,” he reasons. “Your mother killed mine. But you don’t have to go down the same path.”

Taeyong scoffs. “Of course you don’t understand. I’ve been with her since I was a child. She provided for me—which is more than I can say for _your_ mother.”

“That may be true, but don’t you see? When you were with Kingsman, didn’t you see how much good they’re doing? That you _could_ be doing instead of… this?” Lucas gestures to the server behind him. “Being controlled by the woman that you say raised you?”

“She is not _controlling_ me—I do what I do out of my own will,” Taeyong spits.

“Maybe that’s what you tell yourself. You’ve been with her since you were a child,” Lucas realizes with pity. “You wouldn’t have known any better.”

Taeyong shakes his head, shoulders tensed and ready to strike like a viper. “No.”

“Have you ever wondered what Excalibur is for?” Lucas continues. “It’s to control your every move through that tattoo she so generously gave you. Just like every other grunt that she’s hired. You’re not any different.”

“Enough!” Taeyong barks, hefting his weapon up and pointing it towards them. Lucas mirrors Mark’s stance, placing Taeyong’s head squarely in the sights of his gun. “I’ll not hear any more of your lies.”

Lucas and Mark open fire, but Taeyong is a whirlwind, spinning around them and wielding his weapon with unparalleled grace. This, Lucas thinks furiously, is why Taeyong far surpassed him: he’s been trained to kill from a young age, and has been thirsting for blood ever since he knew what it was. 

He ducks, narrowly missing the edge of Taeyong’s blade, and straightens himself to fire his pistol again. Faster than he can even blink, Taeyong slices his pistol in half, switching his weapon to his other hand as he twirls and slashes the blade across Mark’s front. Mark dodges at the last second, pulling his severed tie from his suit.

Irked, Mark fires his pistol, but the cartridge is empty; he tosses it aside, putting his fists up in front of him. Lucas mirrors his stance.

“Isn’t this romantic,” Taeyong drawls. They charge, manoeuvring out of the path of Taeyong’s spinning blade, and Lucas manages to trap the pole in the crook of his arm. Taeyong twists downward; Lucas yelps, arm twisting along with the pole, and Taeyong yanks it out of Lucas’s hold to whack Mark across the temple with the handle.

Taeyong turns to him, grinning wide and menacing, weapon in hand.

“Galahad!” Lucas cries out.

Taeyong whips around, but he recognizes the distraction too late. Lucas pulls the pocket square in his jacket out, letting the cloth spread itself in the air. Mark presses a button on his watch, and a web of rope shoots out of it, trapping the pocket square on Taeyong's nose and mouth. 

The sedative works quickly, Taeyong's eyelids drooping as soon as the pocket square comes into contact. The pole slips from his hand, falling onto the tile with a clatter; he follows suit, crumpling to the ground in a graceful heap.

Despite himself, Lucas scrambles to kneel beside Taeyong, gently pulling the handkerchief off. Taeyong looks peaceful, harmless. Undeserving of what has befallen him. 

“It had to be done,” Mark reassures him, a hand on his shoulder. “Come, Lancelot. Let’s do what we came here for.”

Nodding, Lucas turns away from Taeyong, extracting the memory stick from his inner pocket. Together, they make their way up the small set of steps that lead to the server. Lucas plugs the memory stick in, selects **EXECUTE PROGRAM** when he's prompted, and steps back. 

Mark takes his hand and they wait for the progress bar to reach completion. The server sputters out, sparks flying from the computer as it's overloaded with commands, but the job is done. Inhaling deeply, Mark turns to Lucas with a smile, stretching his arms out to envelop him in a hug. 

“I'm proud of you, Lancelot.”

“As am I, Galahad.”

The sunlight is almost blinding after the darkness of the server room, but it’s a relief when they step outside. They’re met with the sight of about fifty men passed out in the courtyard, the same number strewn across the ramparts; in the midst of them are Percival and Gawain, a little beat up but still standing.

“Lancelot, Galahad!” Percival exclaims, running towards them in excitement. “You did it!”

“Barely,” Mark answers. “Is everyone shut down?”

“To our knowledge,” Gawain informs them, turning one of the men over with the toe of his shoe. “Poor fuckers.”

“Morgana, then?” Lucas asks hopefully.

Percival and Gawain shake their heads. Lucas is on the verge of gathering them around, telling them to regroup, when a shadow cuts through the sunlight.

A woman in a full-length black gown is standing on one of the bastions, staring imperiously down at them. Her charcoal hair is piled high on her head, jewellery glittering at her throat and over the opera gloves on her arms. She’s not armed, not that Lucas can see; even from afar he can tell her lips are pressed into a thin red line, a look of utter hatred evident as her gaze falls on Lucas. 

That alone is all he needs to know. “Morgana.”

The woman nods. “Lucas Wong. The resemblance is quite striking, I confess.”

Lucas huffs in distaste. “My mother’s face haunt you in your dreams?”

“You have no idea.” She paces along the ramparts, hands folded in front of her demurely. “When we recovered Excalibur from her ashes, I thought she may be useful yet, even in death.” Morgana stops, then, meeting Lucas’s eyes once again. “As it turns out, I had to wait twelve years for the bitch’s whelp to make an appearance.”

“I apologize for ruining your day.”

“My day?” Morgana’s laugh is rough and humourless. “You ruined _everything,_ Lucas Wong. You and your little friends. But I can do this again. I can wait twelve more years until you and Kingsman are out of my way.”

“Give it up, Morgana,” Lucas sighs. “You have nothing. Your men. The Knights. Taeyong.”

“ _Mordred_ will follow me to the ends of the earth,” Morgana answers smugly. “I will make sure of that.”

“By stripping him of his free will?” Lucas bursts out. “Controlling him just like you have since his childhood?”

“You know nothing, child,” Morgana spits. “I need him by my side.”

Frowning, Lucas opens his mouth, a retort already forming on his tongue. But something gives him pause—despite the ice in Morgana’s tone, her brown eyes are warm with affection when she talks about Taeyong, underpinned by the fear of loss. Even more loss than what she’s already suffered. 

Morgana, in her own twisted way, truly loves Taeyong.

A set of heavy footsteps distracts both of them. Shuffling across the courtyard is Taeyong himself, weak and bruised and using his pole for support, but with the way his eyes are set one couldn’t even tell. This is what she passed onto him, Lucas realizes.

A smile breaks across Morgana’s face; she’s beautiful. “Darling,” she exclaims in delight. “You’re awake.”

Taeyong pays no heed to her attentions, gaze unwavering as he draws closer to the ramparts, standing in front of Lucas. “Boa, you would really…? To me?”

“I saw how you faltered today,” she reasons, sickly-sweet voice echoing around the castle walls. “I can’t have that happening.”

“So when you sent me to infiltrate Kingsman, what was that?” Taeyong accuses.

“Surely you know, darling, that I haven’t made use of you for so long because I wanted to protect you,” Morgana coos. “I only sent you to Kingsman because it was necessary. I kept your hands clean of everything else because I need you close and beyond suspicion. You will be my legacy, and until you assume my position, you must be protected, even from yourself.”

“You never trusted me,” Taeyong says, voice small and weak.

“I _care_ about you.”

“You _lied_ to me. You taught me to lie,” Taeyong cries, louder and angrier with every word. “If this is what you think caring for me is, I don’t want any part of it.” 

Morgana shakes her head as though Taeyong is a child that couldn’t possibly understand. “Dear boy, it’s for your own good.”

“Keeping someone in the dark isn't protecting them,” Lucas interjects. “I know that better than anyone.”

Taeyong turns to him, then, the ice in his eyes melted. “I’m sorry for everything,” he begins. “I should have listened. I’m not any different from everyone else she’s used so far. Not the Knights.” His gaze lands on Mark. “Not your parents.”

Taeyong straightens, looking upon Morgana with finality. “You were right, mother. I _am_ the right man for the job.” Taeyong hefts his pole in one hand, takes aim, and hurls it straight towards Morgana’s chest.

The blade embeds itself just below her ribcage. Morgana gasps, grasping at the shaft of the pole; her hands come off bloodied, and she stares down at Taeyong as she falls from the rampart, landing with a dull _thud_.

Taeyong is calm as he walks towards her body, a pool of black sprawled across white stone. He kneels beside her, taking one of Morgana’s blood-stained hands in his, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. When he pulls away, there’s a smile on her face; she raises a shaking hand to stroke Taeyong’s cheek, leaving a streak of red.

Her hand falls as she takes her last breath. “Goodbye, mother,” Taeyong says softly.

Mark takes hold of his hand. Lucas squeezes tight, unable to tear his eyes away. This, the two of them understand. They step back and let Taeyong have his moment of peace. 

The shadows are at their shorters when a faint buzzing distracts them—two helicopters, both descending onto the courtyard and sending their suit jackets aflutter. Merlin hops out from one of them, and from the other descends Arthur, along with Guinevere in an extremely fashionable white flight suit and aviators. 

“It seems like you've succeeded, Kingsmen,” Arthur notes with a grin. “Well done.”

He takes notice of Taeyong, then, shrinking behind Lucas. Arthur takes off his glasses, and instead of the anger that Lucas expected, there's pity in his eyes. “Come, Taeyong.”

Taeyong steps forward, dropping his weapon onto the stone. His stance is meek, no trace of the bravado he had flaunted in the server room. Lucas would be much the same, if he were to be faced with the look Arthur is giving him. 

“I apologize, Arthur,” Taeyong says contritely, head ducked. “For betraying your trust.”

“And compromising headquarters, you mean,” Arthur adds. 

Taeyong nods, eyes still trained on his shoes. “I know nothing that I can do will be able to rebuild what my mother and I have destroyed. Give me the punishment that I deserve.”

“Punishment?” Arthur repeats. “Morgana said it herself—she kept you innocent of everything except infiltrating the Kingsman premises, and well, that's certainly not a federal crime if they don't even know who we are…”

Frowning, Taeyong finally looks up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the most you can be charged with is aiding and abetting, and I'll not let you rot in a prison cell if I can help it. All this has just proven to me, Taeyong, that you can still change.” He steadies a hand on Taeyong’s shoulder. “To abandon everything you’ve known and trusted to do the right thing is a very difficult decision to make, but you did. We’ll make a Kingsman out of you yet.” Arthur turns to Guinevere. “Gwen—there's an open position at Camelot, am I correct?”

“For a security officer, yes, Arthur.”

“Well, I _am_ one for dramatic irony,” Arthur shrugs. He levels a stern glare at Taeyong. “Once Kingsman is rebuilt, you'll be released from confinement in Camelot. You will work for Kingsman under the highest surveillance possible. You will help undo what your mother has done. Understood?”

Taeyong nods. “Yes, Arthur.”

“Good.” Arthur smiles, slight but there. “It's wonderful to see you again, Taeyong.”

“Sir.” Taeyong lets himself be cuffed by Guinevere and led to the chopper.

Right before he boards, he glances at Lucas one last time. He smiles encouragingly, mouthing “See you soon,” and a disbelieving grin breaks out on Taeyong’s face.

Lucas waves at the chopper as it takes off, only stopping when it’s out of sight. Beside him, Mark huffs, but he doesn’t relinquish his hold on Lucas’s hand. “That’s that, I suppose.”

“Ach, are you not getting on?” Merlin complains, Percival and Gawain peering curiously out from where they’re seated in the chopper.

“Where to, then?” Mark questions, tugging Lucas forward.

“You lot decide. Not like we have much to do, anyway,” Merlin huffs, climbing aboard.

Lucas clambers in, helping Mark up. They strap themselves into their seats, pulling earmuffs over their heads and watching the island drift farther and farther away as they ascend.

“Well, Lancelot?” Merlin says through the radio. “Any suggestions?”

Lucas grins at Mark seated across him. “What do you say we go to the record shop?”

Mark beams, reaching over to take his hand. “I would love to.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> inspiration for some of the locations:  
> \- Camelot Resort and Spa: [Mamanuca Islands, Fiji](https://www.travelonline.com/fiji/accommodation/mamanuca-islands/castaway-island-fiji-58640-ws-thumb.jpg)  
> \- The Camelot bunker: literally just the dining room from [The Incredibles](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/88/eb/00/88eb001aaa1abd83bf1e55997f60d0a2.jpg)  
> \- The Lighthouse: [Point of Ayr Lighthouse, Wales, UK](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/30/Talacre-lighthouse2.jpg)  
> \- The Avalon fortress: [Kızkalesi (Maiden's Castle), Mersin Province, Turkey](https://d1dd4ethwnlwo2.cloudfront.net/wp-content/uploads/2020/02/ki3.jpg)
> 
> and my favorite villains!  
> \- Taeyong's final look: his weapon is based on the [_woldo ___](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4MwWOH321U) _ _, a traditional Korean pole weapon; his outfit is from the__[ 180303 boss performance](https://post-phinf.pstatic.net/MjAxODAzMDdfMjA5/MDAxNTIwNDE1ODQzNzk5.tNdZiO1SK1e6wvBLe2EigSpZB5jSw6TbXskTkZEpWBkg.XoDtqoRKG5wV2j3Npat8iXpTp_JPXRdXdA1v67kqSJYg.JPEG/mug_obj_152041584402536926.jpg)  
> \- Morgana's final look: think audrey hepburn [givenchy lbd](https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.voguehk.com%2Fmedia%2F2020%2F07%2FGettyImages-607388848-1.jpg&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.voguehk.com%2Fen%2Farticle%2Ffashion%2Faudrey-hepburn-givenchy-little-black-dress-breakfast-at-tiffanys%2F&tbnid=dPHGvseYf4oLXM&vet=1&docid=XdoOEnL628_7_M&w=784&h=1024&hl=en&source=sh%2Fx%2Fim)
> 
> lastly, thank you so much for reading! and thank you to the mods for making this ff possible 🥰
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/1999LlNE) • [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/yuchi)


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